Life at Hard Labor chapters 26-30

Author: Fumpa
Title: Life at Hard Labor Chapters 26-30
Date: 19 June 2011

Chapter 26-

Bright and early the next morning, I heard the bell ringing again. I knew the routine. I was still wearing my overalls, and I threw my boots on my feet and slumped towards the mess hall. Craig and the rest followed me, as I stared at the backs of several men with short hair, and overalls climbing up their strong backs.

Again, we sat nearly butt to butt, our arms nearly touching at all times. We didn’t mind. What else could we do? I again shoved the grits down my throat. Despite it being only my second day cutting cane, the routine felt as familiar as ever. I didn’t think much about it. I just ran through the routine like a cog.

We filed out to the fields, and rather than cutting right away, Me Craig, Buck, Miner, Chet, and his bunk mate Ryan were assigned to bale and pick up what wouldn’t fit in the truck yesterday. It wasn’t enough to even make a dent on filling the truck, so I could see the logic in only having one there to receive our quota.

It was a light way to start the day. This was easier than cutting, but I noticed Chet was looking really pissed. I tried to talk to him, but he just gave me a blank stare and kept working. I found it hard to believe that this was the guy who had playfully bet on my stamina that first day. Buck looked at him briefly, and got nothing out of him. Being silent like that didn’t help anyone, and it could drive a man nuts.

After a few hours, we had baled and loaded all the remainder of yesterday’s work. I slumped my last bale down in the truck, and a boss ushered us to the field outstretched before us. It would take us a full year to harvest and load that entire vast field. I lifted my knife, and struck down three stalks of the countless thousands before me.

The sun rode high, and began to blaze. I could see ripples coming from the plants. They were giving their own kind of radiance, and the whole field was like an outdoor sauna. Even seasoned field hands like Nate began to pant in this heat as we bought the knives down in the tall stalks. I noticed that the whipping became less. Perhaps it was only a kind of induction to show us who was boss. I never had any doubt of course, but they felt it necessary to remind me anyway.

Chet was rolling through like a wild animal. He probably could have uprooted the damn things if that was the goal. He struck one too high, and got a whip to the shoulder. Rather than wrench in pain, he simply began to cut faster. He hit one stalk 8 times in anger, not realizing he had already cut through.

Who knows what goes through a convict’s mind when he snaps? I knew my own mind well enough, and Craig, Buck, and Miner I knew as if they were best friends from grade school (they were the kind of friends I never actually had in grade school, but I felt a strong kinship.) Chet was a complete mystery however. When I began my sentence, he had only been 4 or so years into his. As much as I fit in and loved the company of my fellow cons, he began to resent the idea of his own lowly state.

After he had arrived at the cane field, he began to crack. The usual methods the bosses had of breaking a man down only wound Chet up. He labored that day like a rampaging bull that couldn’t quite break free of his yoke.

Chet was struck again by a bull whip. “That’s too high dumbass! How long you been here?! Cut it low!” Said the boss, who in the heat was less eager to whip us, but not altogether unwilling. He reached down for a canteen of booze, and looked up to see Chet thundering towards him with his cane knife blazing in the mid morning sun.

Chet had snapped. Before the boss could produce his baton, Chet was on top of him hacking away at his neck. It was uncommon for a convict to overpower a boss. We worked hard, but the bosses worked out. They spent several hours of their free time lifting weights, and running, and training to fight, and of course they were fed better. Despite all of this, Chet was unhinged, and no weakling himself. The boss was decapitated and blood spilled out, mingling with the spilled whisky. A legion of bosses was on top of Chet in an instant, shocking him over and over.

Most attacks such as this ended in the convict being shocked, and the boss walking away breathing comfortably. A convict succeeding in an attack was such a miniscule rarity, that many of the newer convicts didn’t know the precise penalty for such an offense. They only knew that it was unspeakably harsh, and permanent.

I knew what it was, Buck did, and Miner did, Craig did not. Even having been in longer than me by almost 90 years, Craig had never witnessed a successful killing, and he had never been on the chain gang.

In my 100 years on the temporary chain gang, I was witness to another gang. They marched them past us shirtless to mock us some evenings as we sweltered in the coveralls, but I saw that they wore canvass pants bearing traditional black and white stripes.

Their chains were a bit longer, but no heavier than ours, and they were bolted on like ours. They worked the same hours, and did the same work most of the time. They did other things like building and repairing railroads, and filling sand bags to build and repair levies down by the timber camp where there was a large river. They drilled just like us, sang a few different songs, but I noticed a different kind of sadness and torture in their faces.

Every time I saw them, they looked strained with utter exhaustion despite their strong frames. Written among the stripes of their pants on a white stripe on the right leg were simply the words “CHAIN GANG” On the back left pocket, was stamped in bright red the letter P. In a rare moment of speech between us while we whispered in the bunks, I learned from the man behind me that the P stood for “Permanent.” It gave me hope for myself, but despair and pity for the men who bore that horrible red letter.

In the cane field, Chet was cuffed and hogtied by a boss, and the other bosses yelled at us to get back to work. Our backs were turned to Chet as we continued to cut cane, but we could hear him reeling and sobbing wordlessly as he regained consciousness. Buck shut his eyes and winced looking down, as he knew what awaited his old yet estranged bunkmate. Craig looked at me, and I gave him such a hard stare that I nearly communicated everything. I gave one firm nod, and Craig replied with a softer nod and went back to work.

One night on the chain gang, we had been practicing drills for the benefit of a new inductee two men behind Miner. We shuffled behind our bunkhouse, and I saw something that made me go white. As the permanent chain gang shuffled back from their line of rocks, I saw that they had no bunk house to go into. There were two rows of ten small open cages, about the size of the box.

The bars between each cage had been lowered, and the convicts marched in. They sat on their butts, and they were crammed in. There was just enough room for their booted and chained feet to touch the front of each cage, with their hunched back to the back bars. The bars were raised, the lead chain running through them as they rose, and then the lids were closed. They came down an inch above their shaved, tan, dirty heads. This was where they slept. Every night, after 25 hours of back breaking work when all you would have wanted was a bed. They only got five hours to try to sleep in these tiny cages. Their hands were required to rest firmly on their knees at all times in the cage. They could sneak a quick jerk if they felt like taking the whip the next day, but this was mostly just dry humping themselves through their thick canvass striped pants.

There were other hells and tortures that even we could scarcely guess, but what we knew was enough of a deterrent for us. Our rumors alone were sufficient to deter the new meat or any convict from trying to kill a boss. Despite all this warning, this was where Chet was heading.

A truck rolled up, and Chet was loaded in. He sobbed until they were out of earshot. It was the last Me, Craig, Buck, Miner, or any other convict in that camp would hear or see from Chet. None of us dared to take that hard road.

At mid day, we sat with Craig, and related all we cared to talk about to him, and all he was willing to hear.

“Cages.” he said. “That’s enough man. I don’t wanna hear no more.” Craig was silent the rest of the work day.

“You alright Buck?” I said.

He was silent for a while. “He wasn’t a bad guy you know.” Buck finally said. “We had some times, but…He kind of kicked me to the curb. I understand why I guess, but still it was pretty low to just spring it on me like that.”

“And then we got thrown on the chain.” I said “Must have been great thinking about that the whole time.”

“I was more worried about you. You actually give a shit about me. About us in general. He didn‘t but damn, I don‘t like the thought of anyone on that chain forever.”

“That’s why you gotta stick close to each other.” said Miner. “You don’t go apeshit like that if you got friends. Hell, I learned that as a free man. Anyway, the permanent chain aint all bad from what I hear. They get to talk about work when they‘re doin their other details. They can‘t talk like we are now, but they can actually talk which is better than the temp chain.”

“How the hell do they keep them under control?” I asked.

“I heard tell that the bosses are real mean out there.” Said Miner “Some of them took the serum, so they can’t be killed. They love their jobs that much. Hell, that’s where boss Mark is goin. Isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Hope he’s doin ok. I hope they don’t ruin him.” I said. He had given me tough love, but love nonetheless.

Chapter- 27

We worked the rest of the day, and when we filed back to the bunkhouse, we were met with a much less drastic surprise.

“Alright boys. Shuck them overalls. They need em for the oxen. You’re getting standard issue starting today and for the rest of the detail.” Said a boss.

We stripped, and lined up nude where the washtubs were. I had just washed half the overalls in the camp the day before, and now we were getting rid of them. I threw them in a pile, and was handed a pair of carpenter jeans with my number in the old locations. I slid them on, and even though it had only been two days, they felt like old friends. I threw my boots back on and trudged towards the bunkhouse.

Craig was in a better mood, and we talked about the change in uniform with Nate.

“See, what’d I tell you? I don’t feel like such a jackass now.” Said Nate as he let out a stream of smoke.

“I know the feelin.” said Craig rubbing his shoulder and pec. “I don’t got no problem with them ox boys, but I don’t exactly want to look like them.”

“Speaking of oxen, someone should go find Ryan.” Said Buck.

“No need. I’m here.” Said a deep but doughy voice. A thick necked, wide handed guy sat up from the bench where he was laying. His black hair was in a butch cut, and peppered his tan scalp.

“How you doin?” I asked.

“Alright. I guess you’re talkin about Chet. He was a cold dude. He only talked to me his first day and then just kept to himself. I aint been laid proper in a turn and some change. Still, that‘s damn harsh what happened to him.”

We all nodded, and said nothing more about it. We started up a card game. I won half a pack of smokes from Nate, but since we couldn’t smoke them during work hours, they were of no value. It was just for fun really, kind of like betting nickels. You couldn’t lose too much, and all you really won was bragging rights.

We finished our last hand, and walked to our bunks a half an hour before the end of rec time. Ryan was surprised to see that his top bunk was occupied so soon after Chet’s departure. A boy of about 19 sat there on the bottom bunk that had belonged to Chet. He had his hands folded on top of his light brown, shaven, and bent neck. His thin elbows rested on his knees which were encased in a pair of used carpenter jeans. As Ryan walked up, the young boy looked up to see Ryan’s broad shoulders and short hair.

“Hey bud. Name’s Ryan. You?” Said Ryan.

“Wes.” The kid said in a shaky voice. “Listen man, I aint in the best of shape. Is there any way I could get some light work tomorrow or something?”

We all looked at each other with invisible smirks on our faces. He didn’t really look like he was in such bad shape. He was thin, had slight definition on his chest, a bony back, and though his arms were thin, they were somewhat muscular. On my first day, I still had love handles and a bit of a gut. I had managed to swing a sledge for more than 10 hours. This kid could easily best that if he had the will, but no one would expect him to work the full 20 especially cutting cane.

It was at this time, I saw that his number read W-042-A. He had a shot at freedom. It was our job to help him get released. I looked at the D on my own pants, and at the C on Ryan’s. Helping Wes get out would be the closest any of us would come to freedom. We’d teach him to be a good man, but our teachings would be the only part of us that left prison.

“Heh…. Uh, sorry kid. That really aint gonna happen.” Said Ryan. “I’d let you have it if there were, and if I made those decisions. We’re pretty much at their mercy.”

Wes looked down and shook his head. “What are we doin anyway?”

“Cuttin Cane.” I said.

His vacant expression led me to believe that he had never even heard the word.

“Where you from?” Said Craig

“District 20.” he said “I was in 7th street gang.”

“You’re a convict now. We‘re all one big gang in here.” Said Ryan. “Better get used to it.”

“I guess so. Still, I aint cut out for no hard labor.” Said Wes.

“Nobody is. That’s what the grace period is for. Just work till you pass out, but don’t fake it.” Said Ryan.

“So how long you got kid?” Said Buck. Wes was silent.

He finally said, “I can’t make heads or tails of this shit. I never learned to do no readin man.”

“Give that paper to Matt here. He’ll read it for ya.” said Buck.

I took the paper, and read. “Convict Number W-042-A MPL-2159. Convict has served 0 days of minimum 10 turn sentence. Convict is up for review: 50 YEARS AFTER COMPLETION OF MINIMUM SENTENCE. Current Detail: Cane Field, Camp 3. Years Remaining in Detail: 50. Next Detail: Cane Field, Camp 3. Strikes: 0. Major Strikes: 0.

“Cane field again. Damn.” Thought Ryan, and I could read it on his face.

“Well son, you got some hard time. Not to shock you too hard, but it’s about 1000 years before you’re even up for review. After that, it up to the bosses whether or not they let you go.”

“After that.” Said Wes. “Right. You boys are fuckin nuts. Too much sun or somethin.” It hadn’t sunk in that he would serve every single day of that sentence, and then some. “So how long you been in?”

“Bout 120 years or so.” I said.

“Bullshit. You aint even 30.” He said.

“Son, you’ll learn.” I said.

Chapter 28-

As the morning bell rang, I swung my legs over the bunk, and threw my boots on. I was damn tired of waking up this early, but I was used to it, and didn’t complain or lag. I’d been in a long time. Except for Miner, my buddies had been in longer. We simply did what a man had to do, and that was work. There was not one argument out of any of us.

Every class in that society was expected to work. Even the nobles who didn’t do physical work were expected to create the art, and plan the expansion of their vast state. The military went to other worlds, and either killed or forcibly assimilated the native populations. This is where the term “foreign born” came from. The bosses obviously were tasked with our management and punishment. No one questioned the necessity for the lower class laborers and the bottom class convicts to work.

Wes on the other hand was a cocky, lazy kid with an undeserved sense of entitlement. Entitlement was for the noblemen who were born into it, and the military who had earned it through combat. This was a lower class farmer’s son who had shirked a potential life on the farm and chose to run away and loaf on the streets scrounging and sponging whatever he could. He was prime convict material as far as the authorities were concerned.

Wes continued to sleep even after Ryan shook the hell out of him. “Get the hell off me faggot!” Was all Ryan got out of the slumbering 19 year old twerp. Ryan then knew to let him learn the hard way, and walked out to the mess hall. As he left, the Bunkhouse guard walked up to Wes, and kicked him out of bed.

“What the FUCK?!” The kid belted out as he rubbed his head which he had banged on the bunk next to him.

“BOY YOU GET YOUR LAZY ASS OUT OF BED AND GET THEM BOOTS ON.” Said the guard. “THAT’S TWO STRIKES ALLREADY YOU LITTLE SHIT STAIN, AND I BETTER NOT BE THE ONE TO GIVE YOU NUMBER THREE!” He skipped his strap and gave Wes a small shock from the baton.

Wes shook, and when he had recomposed himself, he hurriedly tied his boots, and ran off towards the mess hall. Wes and Ryan sat at the opposite end of the hall from us, but I could see him slump down in front of his mush. He stirred it around with his spoon a bit.

“What the hell is this shit?” He said.

“It’s grits, and a bit of hog meat.” Said Ryan. “Eat it all dude, you aint getting shit else till midday.”

He took a bite of the tough, gristly meat, and gummed it a few seconds before spitting it out. “That tastes like shit! How the hell are you eating this crap?”

Ryan and the convicts around him gave a hard glance and sighed. “Son, you better drop that tough guy shit right now. We’re here for you, but you better wise up. This aint no joke. We’re gonna be workin 20 hours today in the blazing sun, and you’re gonna need the energy.”

“Man, I aint workin no 20 hours. They can kiss my ass.” Said Wes.

Ryan grabbed him by his new shirt, and threw him to the floor. The hardened con had more strength that the kid had ever felt. “WAKE UP DUMBASS.” The guards knew this was not a real fight, and stood by. “Look at that damn number on your pants. You’re a convict now. You say they can kiss your ass. They’re gonna fucking DESTROY your ass if you don’t get your shit together. There aint no way out of this shit, so shut the fuck up and eat.”

Wes was shaking like a little girl. He looked first at the number on Ryan’s jeans, and then at his own. He slumped back up to the table with an angry, but defeated look on his face, and choked down the tasteless, cold grits eating only 2 chunks of the meat.

The convicts all filed out of the mess hall, and washed their faces off with a hose. We then trudged off to the awaiting field full of cane, knives in our ruler pockets. Ryan and Wes were given a ball of twine, and they walked with us to the cane that had not been loaded yesterday.

It was Wes’s first day of hard labor, and while I did pity him, it wasn’t very much pity. We had all bent over ass backwards trying to make that kid feel safe and welcome, but we got a bunch of cocky talk and bitching in return. Like I told him yesterday, he would learn.

He slowly gathered up a few stalks of cane, and when he had about 10, he went to tie them up. WHACK. He got his first taste of the bull whip.

“Boy you better make a bale bigger than that. That’s a waste of time and twine.” Said the boss as he coiled his whip back up.

Wes was about to run after the boss, and Ryan had to hold him back. He grabbed his arm firmly but in a friendly manner. “Son, that aint no good. You got two strikes already. I don’t wanna see you in the box your first night.” He pointed to the small lockers some distance off next to the bunk house.

After we had loaded up the spare cane, we were off to the field. Ryan showed Wes how to cut, and surprisingly, Wes went straight to work without a word. He lifted his knife, and brought it clean down through the cane his first time. He threw the stalk behind him and went to swing again. He had some small history with a farm, and he half knew what to do. On the next stalk, he swung too high and was given a light whip.

“Lower than that boy.” Said the boss, and Wes swung the knife at the bottom of the next stalk angrily.

Ryan had warned Wes about wiping sweat off, and for a while Wes kept it in mind. 20 minutes into the work however, he instinctively wiped his brow with his arm. WHACK. He got a hard whip.

“WHAT YOU DOIN BOY? YOU DON’T WIPE THAT SHIT OFF TILL I TELL YOU.” Belted out the boss.

“I was just-” Wes almost said, but Ryan shot a quick angry glance at him. Wes again swung the knife angrily at the cane.

I took a quick glance back, and was met with a lash myself. I then set back to work, and didn’t look at them for some time.

It only took about three hours of work but it finally happened. I saw Wes drop to the ground. I vainly hoped that he wasn’t faking it, but I knew better deep down. This kid was going to take the hard road.

“Man out here boss.” Ryan was obliged by the bosses to say even though he knew better. The guard walked over, and prodded Wes with his foot. He saw his eyes open slightly and then quickly shut. He then kicked Wes hard in the ribs. Wes coughed and moaned and grabbed himself.

“God damn fucking new meat. Who is this kid?” The boss thumbed through his roster, and saw two check marks next to Wes’s number. “Well well, looks like we got a man out here. God damn sack of shit.”

“I aint cuttin this cane for no 20 hours!!!” Screamed Wes.

I, and every other convict in earshot went white with fear for the kid. It was bad enough that he had three strikes and now he was refusing work.

“You don’t wanna work? That’s fine son just fine.” Another boss walked over, and the two bosses dragged Wes thrashing back towards the bunkhouses. Outside stood a bar suspended between two other tall bars. I could barely hear, but I knew what was being said.

“Last chance boy. You wanna get back to work?” The boss brandished a prison strap with a metal tab stuck into the end.

Wes was silent.

“Alright son, we’re givin you a choice. Straps or pushups?” said the boss.

For once, Wes’s cockiness had saved him. He was not about to do pushups for anyone, and would not fall into the trap I fell into my second day. “Do whatever the hell your gonna do.” He said. “I ain’t workin.”

Wes’s hands were tied together and latched up to the top bar with a thick leather strap. His arms stretched upwards, and his feet were spread.

“It’s 50 boy. Count em out.” He sent the strap sailing through the air towards Wes’s thin white back. WHACK.

Wes was silent.

“I aint quittin till I hear some counting.” Said the boss. “I got all day.” He whipped again, this time harder. “Heh heh.” He walked up, and pulled down Wes’s jeans.

WHACK.

“ONE!” Said Wes. The strap had landed on his bare milky ass, which now gave a small drop of blood. He didn’t get to 50, but the boss did. Somewhere around 14, he stopped counting, and was just screaming in agony. Somewhere around 30, he stopped moving. He had passed out for real this time.

They dragged him over to the box, and kicked him awake. The blue serum was fresh in his blood, and he realized without any of us telling him that he could not die. He felt like he was in hell, and who could blame him? The boss motioned for him to get in, and he immediately complied. I felt really bad for the kid, but sometimes they had to learn the hard way.

I was like that in my teens. No one knew a damn thing but me. I had luckily shed any such delusions long before I took my job at the factory, and long before I was sent to prison. I valued any advice I could get about anything, and I had the good sense to sort out good advice from bad. Wes sadly lacked such insight. He thought he could resist, the bosses. When it was clear that he couldn’t he decided to let them kill him. When it was clear that he couldn’t die, he submitted, but too late to do him any good. He had a night in the box for faking a pass out, and a week for refusing work. All of this before he had completed one day. He was off to a rough start.

That day at mid day, we talked to Ryan.

“Hell man, they’re always stickin you with the nice guys.” Said Buck.

Ryan chuckled with his mouth full of beans. He swallowed and said, “God damn I feel bad for the kid. I didn’t tell him, but I got the box my first week. I cried like a baby girl.”

“I don’t think it would have done much good telling him what it was like. Some boys just need to learn the hard way.” I said.

“Guess so.“ Said Ryan. “Still, I feel like I fucked up royal. This kid’s got a shot at getting out; I don’t wanna fuck that up for him.”

“Just be there for him. That’s all you can do. The rest is up to him. I think he’ll know his place when he crawls out of that box. When he does, just try to be a good friend to him. Share your meal or somethin. He‘ll need to know someone gives a shit.” Said Miner. “I’d be slow to rough him up again though.” “I did kind of freak him out this morning didn’t I?” Ryan said as he took another bite. “I just figured that was the only way to get through.”

“These bosses aint helpin.” Said Craig in a low tone. “If we could give him a pat on the back and a suggestion now and then it’d be great.”

“What’s that?” Said the boss looking up from his salami sandwich. God I missed salami. “Boy, you do that on your own time. You’re here to work, not write love poetry.” The bosses were slightly more personable when off the clock, but not by much.

“Right boss.” said Craig. “Anyway, he’s got a week and a day. We should get better at this shit ourselves before we go teachin him.

“I can help with that.” Said Nate. “So can you High Rye.” Ryan had acquired this nick name from a story he told about eating some moldy rye bread, and hallucinating from the ergot. The name pleased Buck. “You boys ain’t doin too bad now; you just need to get into the rhythm so you’re not dry heaving at the end of the day.”

True to what Nate said, we worked the rest of that day and got into the rhythm. We were tired, but composed when we had finished loading the truck. We didn’t have a chance to tap the lids of the boxes in the morning or at night, because we didn’t walk past them. Wes would lose track of time while he cried and sweat in that tiny box. The stupid was melting right out of him with each bead of sweat.

Chapter 29-

It was actually three weeks before they finally let the poor kid out of the box. Even out here in the cane field, they had the rock punishment. He refused to break the rocks the first week, and when he finally complied, he was made to do two more weeks to make up. As they opened the door, he slumped out sobbing, still a little black and blue from the beating he got a week ago. He was begging to be let back to work.

“PLEASE BOSS! LET ME CUT SOME CANE. I’LL WORK HARD, AND I WON’T EVEN TALK. JUST DON‘T PUT ME BACK IN THAT BOX.” He was sobbing. His voice sounded much younger, but raspy.

“Alright Faggot. Get at it.” The boss said. Wes crawled, and then walked off as he was handed his cane knife and a ball of twine.

I noticed that he was not taken to the doctor, and I was afraid for him, but less so than I was a week ago. If he passed out today, it would be genuine, and he would come to no harm as a result. We loaded yesterday’s leftovers, but before we were even cutting, I noticed that Wes was panting and moving slowly.

“Keep it up kid. You‘re doin alright.” said Ryan under his breath. “You can work till you give out, but don’t give up.” WHACK.

Wes felt his first pang of sympathy in his life when he saw that Ryan took a heavy hit with the bullwhip just to give him an encouraging remark. He then saw Buck take a hit for not cutting through all the way. It was at this stage, that Wes realized he was not suffering alone.

Ryan started to throw several stalks of his cane behind Wes. Despite his fatigue, Wes noticed this generosity, and smiled at Ryan as he took another swing. Wes threw a single stalk in Ryan’s row. Ryan shook his head. Very quietly under his breath he said. “Don’t need to do that son. I aint ever getting out of here. Best I can hope for is bein a trustee. I’m helpin you out. You can get out, and if the bosses think you’re doin more, it’ll look better. They can’t tell from back there if a few of mine end up behind you, and you get to bale more.”

“Thanks.” said Wes. “Sorry for being such a dick earlier.”

“That’s alright. I really don‘t blame you.” He got another whack from the bullwhip.

“CUT THAT CHATTER BOYS. THAT’S STRIKE ONE FOR YOU RYAN.” Said the boss.

After a few more hours, I saw that Wes was swinging, but his knife did not even pierce the thick stalks. The boss knew what was coming, and spared the whip. It was only 4 hours of work before he passed out. I though he could outdo my first day, but he didn’t work half as long as I had managed to. Ryan and Craig lifted him, and carried him to the shade of the truck. The doctor was soon out, and he was carted back to the bunkhouse. He slept through the rest of the day, and woke up the next morning. That day he managed to work until midday before he passed out, just as I had my first day. He was slowly toughening up.

By the end of the month, he was nearly working his full 20. Most days, he’d pass out with a few hours left in the day, and we would help him walk on his own back to the bunkhouses. He didn’t say one more mean word to a fellow convict for the rest of his relatively short minimum sentence of 1000 years, but he still had some cocky words for the guards, and even in that short month, he had come dangerously close to a term on the chain gang.

Me, Buck and Miner didn’t know it, but the strike rule was relaxed a bit once a convict had been on the chain gang twice. The strike system and those first two terms on the chain gang were there to break a convict down. If you found yourself on the chain gang more than twice, it was because you had either verbally or physically assaulted a boss, not because you slacked one too many times. If you did happen to get put on more than twice, your time there would be much longer than 100 years; longer, but not forever like Chet. The strikes still had some teeth though, as they could result in loss of credits, or nights in the box.

“Well, there went field 10.” Said Nate at the end of one day. We could barely believe it. Behind us stretched thousands of short stubs, and before us was another road where a flatbed truck was waiting to take us to field one.

We got in and rode for an hour or so until we came to field one. The bunkhouse was identical, so a change in numbers was not necessary. We slept soundly, and looked forward to the first day in a long time where we wouldn’t be cutting cane.

“What do you mean we aint cuttin today?” Said Wes at the morning meal. “I was just getting good at this shit.”

“Boy, this work is a hell of a lot easier. We’re just swingin a pick all day.” Said Ryan. This hardly sounded easier to Wes, but to convicts like myself who were far better at swinging a pick than at hunching over with a knife, it sounded like a dream.

At the other side of the mess hall, Me, Craig, Buck, Miner, and Nate were talking. “Man, my hands are itching for that pick.” I said. A hundred or so years ago, I would have said I was crazy.

“It’s something different anyway.” Said Nate. “It’s also paperwork tonight. Can you read mine Matt?”

“Read it yourself private.” I said, and the others looked at me weird. They had never heard me be such a dick, and didn’t realize that I was joking with Nate. Even though I was foreign to this culture, I had figured out from the way he sometimes carried himself that he used to be in the military. He was a bit more proud when he walked sometimes, but he still lumbered around like a convict most of the time. The others were clueless to Nate’s history.

“That’s Lance Corporal.” He said. “Well, convict now…You got a good eye bud. How’d you figure it out?”

“I look at men a lot. It’s a pastime of mine. You just looked like you’d been in the military.” I said.

“No fuckin way.” Said Buck laughing. “You? Man, you act like you were born in a cane field. What’d they send you out here for?”

“Murder. What, did you think I stole a bike or somethin?” He said referring to the thick, black D at the end of his number.

“Yeah, I knew that, but I though the military had free rein to kill.” Said Buck.

“Not Citizens.” He said. “Sure as hell not fellow soldiers. Let‘s just drop it.”

“Alright man. It’s cool.” Said Buck. We would later learn that he murdered his commanding officer who had ordered him to help take out the population of a small but beautiful world. He had tipped off some of the natives who fled. To this day, it is uninhabited by the state as the world had a kind of scorched earth policy, but Lance Corporal Nathanial Ralt paid the price for defending it. He had adjusted well to the relatively peaceful, yet hard life of a convict, and didn’t think about his old life much.

We spent that day sinking picks mattocks, hoes and metal rakes into the hard soil that was flecked with old cane stalks. We were turning the soil up, and there were some ox men throwing handfuls of manure out over the ground from sacks at their side. Soon, everyone’s pant legs were brown, and we all stunk of cow and horse dung, but we soon got over the smell, and were happy to not be hunched over slicing the thick cane stalks. After a few good spring rainfalls, the soil would become rich again, and we could start to plant. Wes had been given a rake out of mercy, but despite his lighter task, the smell of manure was making him slip into his old angry ways.

At midday, I dusted the dry shit off my pant legs, and sunk my pick into the dirt, and left it. I sat down to eat with the rest of the stinking convicts, as I saw a truck roll up to the bunkhouse with a single convict riding in the flatbed. “That must be your new boy Nate.” I said.

“Probably.” He said. “Bout damn time too. He looks old though. That’s good. We got enough damn kids out here.” He turned to Wes as he said this in a joking fashion, but Wes was not in such a good mood. “Man, I was just jokin. Lighten up kid.”

“Yeah yeah.” Said Wes. He knew better than to be a dick to a fellow convict, but he was angry at the bosses nonetheless. He had taken to working near Hank and Paul, the two troublemakers. He got his share of laundry duty as a result.

When we were back to work, Paul was getting a little too funny for the bosses. He had been on the Chain gang once, and was singing some of the drills and kicking dirt up in the air with his hoe in a joking manner. CRACK. He got a whip to the back, but he spit in the guard’s face.

“That’s it dumbass. Strike one.” Said the boss and whipped him again twice.

Paul was silent for a while, but while working near Wes, he said to the kid, “Fuckin screw. I was just havin a bit of fun. I was still workin.”

“Yeah, these guys are real dicks.” said Wes.

Paul couldn’t contain himself any longer. “WIPIN IT OFF HERE BOOOOOSS!” he half said, half sung, and whipped off his shirt scrubbing his head.

Five strikes from the whip. “That’s 2 boy.”

Paul was chuckling a bit, but got back to work. He was in a troublemaking mood.

“Man lay off him.” said Wes innocently. We had all forgotten that he was only a strike away from the chain. We had warned him of course, but in the heat of the day, your mind can leave you.

“What was that boy?” Said a boss. Paul went silent, and white. He remembered, and cursed himself for being such a moron.

“LAY OFF HIM.” Said Wes, still not remembering.

“Well, I think that’s three major strikes boy. God damn. After only a month too. You better say your fuckin prayers son. You’re gonna be cuttin your teeth on the chain gang.”

“Oh god. SHIT.” Said Wes. “FUCK!!!!! I can’t believe this shit. I forgot! DAMN IT!!” he began to sob, as the boss cuffed him behind his back, and walked him off to the bunkhouse to call the chain gang. In the hope of deterring him, we told him most of what we had experienced on the chain gang, and he had a good idea what was in store for him. I shut my eyes for a brief second, and was back to work.

Chapter 30-

Ryan dropped his pick, and kicked it biting back tears. He was met with a bullwhip. “That’s two minors for you boy, but no major strikes.“ another boss said. “You wanna follow him, come take a swing at me.” Ryan didn’t do this, but he was half tempted to take a swing at someone else. He was positively pissed at Paul for putting Wes in that position.

At the end of the day, a truck rolled up, and Wes was forced thrashing into the back. He probably added 50 years to his term on the chain for resisting, and time spent on the chain gang did not count toward his mandatory minimum sentence.

We all slumped back to the bunkhouse, our heads hung low. After we had choked down our meals, Ryan went up to Paul.

“Man, why the hell’d you do that to him?” Ryan said.

“Do what? He did himself. I didn’t tell him to stick up for me.” Said Paul.

“YOU SON OF A BITCH, YOU COULD HAVE WARNED HIM.” Yelled Ryan.

“I FUCKING FORGOT! ALRIGHT?! SORRY YOUR SO GOD DAMN BUTTHURT YOU LITTLE QUEER!” Paul replied not knowing his peril.

“Mother fuck…” He didn’t finish the word. Ryan took a hard swing right at Paul’s face. He fell to the ground, a half eaten bowl of slop flying in the air. Paul the got back up, and swung at Ryan. They exchanged a few blows to the face, and wrestled to the ground before we could run over and try to pull them apart. Buck grabbed Ryan, and Hank grabbed Paul.

“It aint worth fightin!” Said Hank.

“Damn straight.” Said Buck. “It’s the goddamn bosses, and you both know it! They‘re riding everyone so goddamn hard we can‘t even see straight! I wish fucking Mark were out here.”

It was a good thing Buck had finished his tirade. The bunkhouse guards walked up, and hauled both of the combatants to the box. They had both earned their third minor strike, and a trip to the box. They each got a month, with rocks to break every day.

“I need a fucking cigarette.” said Buck nearly in tears. He was right. It was really rough out here on the field. Even us tough long term cons felt the bitter tang of the young guy’s punishment.

“Here man.” said Nate handing Buck a cigarette, and a match. “Let’s go back to the bunks. It’s been a long damn day.”

It had been. I was dog tired, and we all still stunk of manure. We saw Wes; new meat of one month, sent out to more than a century on the hellish chain gang, and two men sent to the Box for the month. I really didn’t think anything could shock me any further, but I was dead wrong.

In the bottom bunk under Nate‘s, we saw a fit man about 29, with brown hair in a newly shaven flattop. Like the rest of us, he was muscular, and he had the defeated, down low bearing of a convict, but he was wearing clean jeans, and his skin and hands were not so rough. His number read M-015-D. I was glad we had 2 hours of Rec time left to talk with him. It was boss Mark.

“I can’t believe I did it.” he said. “I can’t fucking believe it.” He was shaking his head on the verge of tears. An eternity of hard labor, and brutal discipline awaited the former boss, and he was understandably dejected. He would now be on the receiving end of the punishment.

“Man, it’s done.” Said Nate. “Just calm down.” It was really surreal seeing the proud man who had stood over us those years on the road crew sitting there head hanging low in a pair of frayed carpenter jeans.

“I know. I know. God damn….is that….Matt? Buck, Craig, Miner, God damn.” He shook his head. “I’m so fucking sorry boys. I was just doin my job. Just tryin to get into the military.” He finally broke down and sobbed silently, realizing that he had thrown his whole life away.

No one knew what to do. Finally, I walked up. This man had shocked me 35 times that day he found me in the ally after I had chosen to run back to his hard yet fair discipline. I put my rough hand firmly on his strong shoulder. “You were a damn good boss.” I said. “I’m glad to see you man, but it god damn near breaks my heart seeing you here.”

“Bosses out here are fuckin fierce.” said Buck to Mark who was just regaining his composure. “ Not ten minutes ago I was wishing you were here to set these fuckers straight. It is good to see you.” We each shook his hand.

“God damn.” he said sniffing. “You’re some good men. I can’t believe it. I knew you were good workers, but damn you men are first class. I kick your ass for all those years, and instead of kicking me when I’m down like I’d expect, you pat me on the back.”

“You’re a convict now.” Said Craig. “We gotta look out for each other. If we don’t, it’s fucking hell in here.”

“What’d you do man? Said Miner.

“Oh god.” he said. “I still can’t fucking believe it. They had me guardin those men on the chain gang. The fucking stripes, chains.” He looked down unable to continue for a while. “I….I killed a boss. He was whoopin the hell out of this new guy for being out of line. He couldn’t drill right. He just kept strapping him, and it was his first god damn day. I didn’t last one damn year guarding that chain gang. I didn’t even whip them that much, but he made me whip that new man to ‘train’ me.”

“God damn. That could be Chet.” Said Buck. “Did he have black hair? Kinda squatty, but not chubby? He had a bit of acne.”

“You knew him. My god. I’m so sorry.” Said Mark. “I whipped the hell out of him for about 6 strokes before I cracked. I shocked the boss, and fucking ran. It wasn’t long before they caught me. I didn’t think they’d send me to the same damn prison. Those fucking bosses are gonna eat me alive.”

“We’ll get you through man.” Said Nate. “By then end of the next detail, any of them you knew will be dead.”

“Not him. Not the guy who caught me.” Said Mark.

“Then we’ll keep you off the chain. Or try like hell to. If we can’t, well you’ll just have to face him.” Said Nate putting his hand on Mark’s knee. “Name’s Nate, by the way. I‘m your bunkmate.”

“Mark.” he said. They shook hands.

“Well, your strong Mark, and that’s good but you aint use to working. I know you can pull your 20 tomorrow. Don’t give them an excuse to whip you. They’ll find one on their own.”

“We better get you some food.” I said. I went out to the mess hall, and scrapped what I could off the floor from Paul’s spill.

“Hey man. Just take this.” Said Hank handing me a half a bowl of the meat. “I never finished, it. I can’t now. I thought you had yours today though.”

“I did, but we got new meat.” I said. “He’s really shaken up.”

“Give him my best.” Said Hank.

I dumped the dirty food and said “Hang on to it. I’ll go get him. “ I then went to get Mark, and show him a convict‘s meager welcome.

Mark sat and savored the cold, bland convict chow. It was like this stuff was pulling him back down to earth. I couldn’t know what kind of fear was going through his mind.

“Really though Matt. I’m sorry for shocking you so hard. You just pissed me off is all running off like that I guess.” Said Mark.

“I was being stupid.” I said. “I really wasn’t thinking about what could have happened to you. I said it before, you were the best damn boss I’ve ever had, and I wish you were here to boss us now.”

“It’s alright. I paid harder for letting you boys have that beer.” Said Mark.

“You don’t have any idea how awesome that was for us.” Said Miner. “We damn near felt like free men again.”

“Glad I could help I guess.” Said Mark. “That aint never gonna happen again though is it…”

“Who knows?” Said Buck. “Maybe one of these field bosses will give us a backrub and a bottle of champagne.” We chuckled, but sadly. A backrub was a whipping, and a bottle of champagne was a piss in the face.

It was fairly hot in the bunkhouse. I went to wipe my forehead, but meeting Mark’s face, I instinctively said
“Wipin it off boss.”

Almost as instinctively, Mark said “Yeah, wipe it off there.”

When we caught each other as the rest of the cons bit back laughs, we looked each other in the eye. I saw his jeans, and his number, and his new haircut. We laughed, and shook hands hard, and patted each other on our strong arms. The whole mess hall was laughing, an uncommon sound for the cane fields.

“Damn. I almost forgot the paperwork.” said Craig. I was then handed about 7 sheets of paper to read for the group of convicts who gathered around me like an army on mail call.

“Alright.” I said and sighed. I didn’t mind, but it was so damn tedious reading out loud until I was raspy every time we got a sheet of paper. “I am kind of curious what my next detail is. Ok, Hank, up for review in 50 years, you’re still on the cane field. Sean….. You’re up TODAY. Get the hell up to the office. You’re on the road crew next by the way, that is if your still here.” I paused briefly to hand them back their papers. They actually needed to keep them.

“That does if for the As, Bs, and Cs. Now for us god damn Ds.” I continued. “Buck, Timber camp. Miner…Timber camp. Mark, Timber camp, Nate, Timber camp, Craig Timber came, and Matt…Timber camp. So, we’re gonna be seeing some trees boys.”

“Damn. That’s pretty sweet.” Said Craig. “I’ve been missing the woods. Still, chopping them down…”

“Heh, me too, But yeah that’s the way it goes.” I said. “You ever done that shit Nate?” He was the only one here whose history I wasn’t familiar with.

“Nope. New to me.” he said.

“I talked with a few bosses who worked the timber camp.” Said Mark. “It’s hard work from what I hear.”

“Well no shit.” Said Buck. “I aint expecting no tea parties or clerical work in here. I hope you aren’t”

“Yeah, that’s kind of a given Mark.” I said.

“Heh. I guess so.” Said Mark.

“You do a lot of guessin.” Said Buck. “You aint the boss man no more, you’re the guess man.” He hadn’t even worked a day, and Mark had his nickname.

“I GUESS we’d better get to bed.” said Craig. “It’s gonna be a long day.”

“It always is I GUESS.” I said. Mark smiled, and his face was red. He was one of the convicts.

Nate gave Mark a welcoming blowjob, and we all screwed. Mark’s arrival had made us forget Wes for a short time. I lay in bed for a while thinking about that poor kid toiling in a boiler suit on the chain gang. Maybe they didn’t have the boilers anymore. I hoped not. I didn’t know what he would be like when he got out, but it was going to be very different.

The morning bell rang, and Mark was luckily on his feet. He had an alarm clock in his old life that rang two bells, and he was used to the sound. We ate mostly silently. I didn’t have to tell Mark to eat everything. He knew what we went through, and he thought he knew what he was going to go through.

We walked out to the field, and began again to till the soil. In my old life they had machines for this too. A few dozen Roto-tillers could have finished this field in one week, or better yet, a tractor could finish it in a day. Doing it by hand the way we were. It would take one long grueling year of swinging pick axes, and smelling manure.

Mark was handed a pick right away. The boss recognized his strength, and he recognized the man himself.

“Well Mark, beautiful mornin isn’t it?”

“Yes sir Boss Simon.” Said Mark looking down, and he took his first swing of his sentence. His hard labor had begun.

“Hell, that’s music to my ears. Boss Simon, comin out of you, you little punk ass fresh kid, gunnin for my job.” He cracked his whip in the air next to Mark. “GET TO WORKIN BOY.”

“Yeah boss.” Said Mark, and swung hard and fast. I was impressed. I knew…first hand… that Mark had strong arms, but I was still amazed at how he swung that pick. I worked next to Mark; Craig on my other side with another pick, and the ox men started to spread the manure. A still wet chunk of it flew up and hit Mark in the face.

“Wipin it off boss.” Said Mark. This was new meat right? He was keeping pace, and working hard just like he’d been here for 100 years. I wondered how long it would last.

“Ya’ll leave it on there Mark.” Said boss Simon. “Makes you look less ugly.” Simon was one to talk. He had greasy black hair that hung down over his ears. It spilled out of his hat like some sickly octopus. My hair used to look like that.

“Wipin it off boss.” I said.

“Yeah wipe it off there Matt.” Said Simon.

I took a rag to the back of my neck first, and then rubbed my recently cut hair. God it felt good. If I were set free the next day, I would still probably continue to cut it like this. I looked at Mark who was still swinging hard, but starting to breathe harder.

Simon decided to lay off Mark for a while, and let the convict life sink in a bit. Mark began to sweat hard, the manure finally sliding off his face. He sunk his pick axe in the shit smelling dirt, and turned it up. He swung harder on a cluster of hard dry stalks that had been left from the cutting. We all toiled on into midday, the smell of manure wafted up with the heat of the sun hitting it. Boss Simon saw an old rival in Mark, an opportunity to break down a man he had wanted to punch for so long. He wanted to be assigned to the chain gang instead of Mark, and if he kept up this brutality he would be a prime candidate for the job.

Mark just kept working hard. We communicated our emotions through glances and nods. We weren’t allowed to speak until midday. A passerby would not have seen a former guard, a former miner, a former homeless man, or a former factory worker. They would have seen four convicts with pick axes, and 50 others with similar tools. Mark was just one of us now, a dirty stinking convict swinging a pick axe in a pile of dirt and manure.