Life at Hard Labor chapters 6-10

Author: Fumpa
Title: Life at Hard Labor chapters 6-10
Date: 15 June 2011

Chapter 6-

The Captain walked out, and Russ walked back in. “Alright boys, follow me.” He said, and we followed him up to the cage. “Strip down, and throw your clothes in here.” he pointed to a bin full of clothes, chicken bones, and cigarette butts. We stripped, and thankfully nothing was said about my rock hard unit springing out. The miner threw his work boots, brown pants, and dirty white shirt in, and was soon followed by my olive cargo pants, my black and red sneakers, my blue shirt, and my wallet; the cards falling among the chicken bones.

I had figured the casting off of our old clothes and our old lives would be a bit more ceremonious, but the guard hurried us on. He pointed at a large hole in the cage where one of the trustees was standing. On a metal plaque above the hole was written “UNIFORM” in bold letters, with the paint peeling. Another hole several feet down was labeled “CANTEEN.” Rather than ask us our pant size, the trustee opened a door to the cage, came out, and measured us with a tape measure. He called to his partner “34 32, 38 30, XL, and XXL.” I recognized 38 as my waist size and 30 as my inseam.

He then took out a flat contraption and flopped it on the floor. “Put your foot in there.” he said to me, and I did so. He moved a platform on the device up to my toe, and then did the same with the miner. “10 and a half, and 11 and a half.” he said and hopped back in the cage. He then grabbed two bundles from his partner, each topped with a pair of plain, brown leather, work boots. He slid them out to us and said “get dressed over there” pointing to the benches.

We sat next to each other, and the miner looked at his pile of clothes, and then looked at me for a few seconds. His eyes were wide with sadness, betraying his stern expression. “God damn man, this is all we get.” he said in a low hushed voice. I half expected Russ to come barreling down on him yelling about how it was more than we deserved, but the guard stood by the wall with a half smirk on his face, his hand patting his baton.

I looked down at the bundle sitting next to me for the first time. It was two pairs of light blue carpenter jeans, two sleeveless white t shirts, and the pair of brown work boots I had noticed before. No underwear, no socks, no warmer clothes. This was indeed, all we got. I looked at the wall, and next to the jeans hung the coats, long sleeved denim shirts, overalls, underwear and socks that were obviously missing from my bundle.

“You gotta pay for them if you want em’ boy.” Russ said, reading my facial expression. “You get one credit for a full days work if you keep your ass in line. Them boxers you’re eyeballin are 50 credits. Your evening meal is half a credit, and so is a can of dip. After your first turn, we might bump you up to one and a half credits, but only if you’re damn good. Jeans, boots, two meals, and water. That‘s all we have to give you on a regular basis.” There were other things they were required to give us like shelter, work tools, transport, beds, and of course the work, but his point was clear. It was going to be a hard life.

The miner shook his head, grabbed the jeans and put his legs through. He had made 10 credits an hour in the mine, and was now down to one a day. I watched him as he stuffed his cock in the pants and zipped them up. “You need help faggot?” barked Russ “Or do you think you can copy off from him?” It didn’t register in my mind. “PUT EM ON BOY!” he screamed at me and I snapped out of it.

I grabbed one pair of the jeans and threw them on as if they had been sitting on my bedroom floor and I was late for school. Then we quickly put on and tied the work boots, and then the shirt. “Lookin good ladies. Let’s go!” said Russ, and we grabbed the other clothes, got up and followed him into a small room. A burley man with a green visor and a long black beard sat at a desk which was covered in papers and crumbs. “Got two here sir, ready to head out.” said Russ, and a deep southern voice replied. “Big one on the rocks, tall one on the roads.”

Russ pointed at the miner, and then at me. “You follow me, you wait here.” The miner followed Russ out into the sunlight, and through a window I saw them walk out of sight. I wouldn’t see the miner again for a long time, and I would never learn his real name untill I did. The people who knew him just called him “Miner” much to his chagrin.

In the meantime, I was left with the clerk. He didn’t speak a word to me, but continued to stamp and sign and file papers. After standing there a few minutes, a dark thought entered my mind. Hold this guy hostage, and make them let me go. I could grab that letter opener and get him in a headlock. As if he had read my mind, the clerk put down his paperwork, and opened a drawer in front of him. He took out a cigar, bit the end off, and lit it. He took a few puffs, and then holding the cigar in his mouth, he then took out a baton like the one the other guards had, but gilded with mother of pearl and silver. This device was their version of the gun obviously. It was entirely non-lethal to people, but incredible effective nonetheless.

He took the baton, and swatted at flies with it. I got a copper taste in my mouth every time he did so. When he finally hit one it exploded in a puff of smoke and a spark. He said, “Got you son of a bitch.” This put any ideas of assault well out of my mind. What the hell was I thinking? They all had these fucking batons. I’d be on the floor, foaming at the mouth before I could get one hand on him.

“You don’t have to stand there son. Hell, I don’t give a shit, relax while you can.” I sat down on a chair across from him, but at a distance. He took another puff, and was silent for a while. I looked down at my jeans. I didn’t have time to inspect them before, and now I put my arms on the armrests, and my hands on my thighs. The denim was smooth, but the seams at the side pockets were thick and triple stitched. I looked at my boots. They were heavy, but they fit me well, and didn’t hurt my feet. It was almost like I had already broken them in. I then realized I was wearing second hand jeans and boots.

They were clean, but I noticed the bottom of the legs was frayed from walking, and feeling the back pockets, they had pea sized holes above them. Another man, probably class A, had probably lived and worked in these pants for a few months, but they were in good shape and didn’t feel like they were going to fall apart any time soon.

The shirt was new, and I could still see the creases in it. I straightened it out as best as I could. I then looked at the other pair of jeans in my bundle, and these had been worn previously too, but were in better shape. They had slightly frayed bottoms, but no holes. The back left pocket had a faded patch in a circular shape. The man who wore these pants chewed tobacco (So did the man who wore the pants I was wearing, but I couldn’t see that at the time.) The pants fit well. They were not tight, or too loose. Despite the fact that another man had worn them, they felt like they had been made for me or that I had been made for them.

The clerk then got up and walked over to me. He stood there, in front of me, and took another puff. He then set the cigar down in a metal ashtray, and unzipped his black pants. “Alright boy, time for me to take a break. He pulled his dick out over his underwear, and said “Open up.” I looked at him with fear, and then I looked at the baton which he now raised as he stretched his arms and back out. I opened my mouth, and he thrust his thick vein streaked cock into my mouth.

He grabbed the back of my head, and pushed it forward. “Come on boy! “he said, and with my tongue, I massaged the veins in his dick and licked under the head, my eyes wide open and trembling and gripping the arms of the chair. I kept going and he moaned like a bull. Sweat streamed down my temples, and finally he shot his load. It was almost as hot as coffee, and it lasted a good 20 seconds. It had been a long time for this man.

He didn’t demand that I swallow, but I did so because I didn’t want to look at a pile of his cum and my shame splatter on the floor. What the hell was happening to me? “Damn that felt good.” The clerk said. “You keep that attitude up, and you’ll make lots of friends kid. Con and guard!”

Chapter 7-

Finally Russ came back in. The clerk had just wiped his dick off with a hand towel, and slid it back in his pants. He turned and faced Russ. Russ then pointed at me. “Alright, come on boy.” he said and I stood up. The clerk and I both had rather conspicuous tents in our pants. His was shrinking after the satisfaction. Mine was not so lucky. I walked out behind Russ, the jeans rubbing my raw, hard cock. They were smooth for jeans, but my privates were used to underwear. I thanked god for making me gay. If I were straight, this would be an absolute hell. I hadn’t seen a woman in over 5 days, and I doubted very much that I ever would again. Some of my best friends in my old world were women, but I wanted a real good male friend. I wasn’t sure I’d find one here. It was more likely that they were all pissed off and hung like elk, ready to shut their eyes, pretend my ass was a pussy, and plow away.

We came to a pickup truck which had a wooden flatbed. “Get in the back.” Russ said, and I hopped up, sat down and stretched my legs out. He got in the front, and started the truck, and we took off down a dirt road. The wind blew in my hair. I could have felt like a redneck on a beer run, if I didn’t feel the puddle of cum sloshing around in my stomach.

For a long time I saw nothing but mountains, and weeds along the side of the road, but then I saw a group of shirtless convicts swinging weird, D shaped tools back and forth among the weeds. They didn’t look up at the truck, but kept their eyes and mind on their work. One did glance up as we were all the way past, and he got a strap on the back from a nearby guard in a sweat stained t-shirt. I heard him belt our “Quit your eyeballin’ boy. You just earned yourself…” and then I couldn’t hear him anymore. We were too far away.

The sun was in the west, and I reckoned it was about 7:00. I was dead wrong of course as I would soon find out. They had a whole different way of measuring time out here. We finally came to an area with tall, rocky hills, strewn with large boulders. There was a long, low bunkhouse made of dark wood, and a few small shacks. Some were big enough to store things, but some were fairly thin and tall, and some were short. I wondered what the hell they could have kept in something so small. Maybe dogs or something.

Russ pulled up in front of the bunk house, got up, and let down the tailgate. I got down, and brushed myself off. A thin layer of dust came off my clothes from the truck. We walked to the door, and as we walked in, Russ yelled out. “Pete! Get out here. Got new meat for ya‘. He needs a buzz, and the lowdown.” A fit trustee in a tight t-shirt came out holding a broom.

“Yeah boss.” he said with a downtrodden drawl. “Come here kid.” Russ then left. There were other guards playing cards at a table, and he waved at them as he walked out. I followed the trustee to a chair. “Welcome to the quarry bud. Name’s Pete.”

He waited for me to give my name, but it had been such a long time that anyone had called me other than “boy“, or “tubbs” or other similar insults that I was silent for a few seconds. “Matt.” I said.

“Matt?” he said to me to confirm it. “Alright Matt. Come on over here, and pop a squat.” I sat on a chair next to a basin with water and a cup of lather. Next to it was an outlet, and hair clippers. This was the one spot in the bunkhouse that had electricity, and a bare light-bulb flickered. “Sorry man, I gotta shave your head. Hair is way too long. I can give you a flat top or a crew cut if you want, and you can keep your beard too, but I’ll have to trim it.”

“Alright.” I said. “Crew cut I guess. And leave my beard.” He then put a towel around me, and picked up the trimmer. He buzzed through my sweaty, long hair, and it fell down to the floor taking with it one of the last ties to my old life. I didn’t really lament it that much. It had been pissing me off since I got to this camp, and I figured that if I were going to be swinging a hammer all day in the summer heat, I’d be glad to have short hair.

He brushed me off, and took off the towel. “There we go. Like a new man.“ He then took an ink pad, a roller, some stencils, and four sheets of light beige canvass the length of each of my hands together, and one of my hands wide. He picked out the letter M, and the numbers 0, 1 and 4. He rolled the roller in the ink pad, placed the stencils as straight as he could on the fabric and rolled over them. The letters were black, and blocky. “Take off your pants.” He said.

“Why the hell not?“ I thought, and took them off. As I stood there bare assed, I watched as he went to a sewing machine, and sewed a patch horizontally across the front of the left thigh about where the hammer loop started. He sewed another on the top of the back right pocket. He then did the same to my spare pair, and waited for them to dry a few seconds. He handed me back the pair I was wearing, and I put them back on.

The numbers had a weight to them that defied gravity. I looked down, and saw those numbers, and I knew I would never be free again. “Don’t let that shit get to you man.:” said Pete in a comforting tone as he put his hand firmly on my shoulder. “The high ups talk a big game about replacing your name with a number, but as you heard, the working bosses just call us by our real names.“

That was a little reassuring. I wouldn’t have to learn to respond to “M-014D” like a robot. “Alright, I’ll show you to your bunk. No workin on your first day, enjoy it while you can. I’d take a nap if I was you, but I still gotta finish emptying the slop buckets. Not looking forward to it, but it beats the hell out of that damn quarry.”

He opened a door onto a long hall with three rows of double bunks. There were fifteen bunks on each of the outside walls making 60 beds, and there were 40 more beds in the center row. There was about one foot of space between each, bunk, and three feet between each row. The beds themselves were just wide enough to fit my shoulders, and just long enough for me to stretch out. I felt bad for anyone bigger or taller. Pete showed me to my bunk, second from the back wall on the left side, on the bottom.

The bunk was wooden, and a small ladder was build into one side at the bottom leading to the top. There were blankets rolled up at one end on my bunk, but the rest of the bunks had blankets strewn about. There was a single pillow, and the mattress was probably only three inches thick. At the end of each bunk was a jug with a well fitting lid. I sat down on my bunk and Pete said, “Hand me your extra set of clothes. You’ll wear the clothes you got on now the rest of the week, and then on laundry day you exchange them for these. The boys won’t be back for an hour or two, but they’ll fill you in on how shit works here.” He walked off and said “Take care man.” and with a grunt picked up one of the jugs with my clothes on top, and put it on a dolly.

After some time he had loaded the buckets from the middle and right rows onto the dolly and carted them out. Those on the left row were left behind. I sat there for a few minutes with my head hanging low. I then lay down and looked at the wood of the top bunk. I exhaled, and crossed my legs, contemplating my new surroundings. I hated the look of it, but I would grow to love that bunk and other like it after a hard day’s work took its toll. After a while, I had to take a piss. “Crap. Where the hell is the bathroom?” I walked all over the bunk house, but I found nothing but the door to the mess hall, and the door to the room where the guards were before. I then sank a little bit into my boot as I realized it. “Slop buckets.” I thought and walked over to the jug by my bunk.

I took off the lid, and was hit with a foul stench. I looked in. It was empty, but there were a few turds clinging to the bottom. I then knew what the guard at the courthouse had meant by “rustic.” We pissed and shit in a bucket. I unzipped my pants, and pissed into the thing, and it made a deep metallic sound as it hit the bottom. When I had finished, I sat on it to see if it was going to be an ordeal to take a shit. I was relieved to find that the top was fluted out to form something like a toilet seat, and it stood only a little taller than a normal toilet. I got back up, and saw that there were about 10 rags attached to the jug. “He could have maybe explained the toilets to me.” I thought as I realized that these rags were what we would use to wipe our butts. I didn’t know what we were supposed to do with them when we did though. Luckily I didn’t need to shit just then. Sure I was starving, but I didn’t need to shit, and could sort out the details of my new life.

Chapter 8-

After a few hours, I heard hand whistles blowing in the distance, and a bunch of garbled shouting. The sun had all ready set a few minutes ago, and the light inside the bunk house was a pale blue which was quickly darkening. After a few more minutes, I heard a door open, and the sound of booted feet rumbling like a bowling ally coming from the mess hall. Some stopped some continued on. Finally, the door to the bunk house swung open, and in walked one of the saddest, hardest sights I’d ever seen.

Some were walking strongly, some were lunking like oxen, and a few were hobbling towards their bunks breathing heavily and dripping with sweat. They were dressed in carpenter jeans and brown boots just like myself, but they were covered in a dark, brownish grey dirt from head to toe. The jeans were blue in some parts, but were mostly just dirty. The dirt on their skin had mixed with the sweat to make a black grime which streaked both chest and face like marble. These were my fellow convicts.

They were all white men, but they were very tan. I didn’t know at that point if the prison was segregated, or if by chance there were only white people. I saw a few who might have been described as Mexican, if there was such a place as Mexico in this harsh new word with its one brutal state. Some of the men walked straight to the buckets and flung the lids off. Some pissed, and some spit. One guy sat down and shit. I kept half an eye on him, to see what he did when he was done. He took a rag, wiped, and hung the rag on another ring inside the bucket.

Pete came back in with the dolly full of empty buckets, and began to unload them. A few of the cons went up to him and said “Sup’ Pete. Let me give you a hand.” and they took buckets and set them down in front of the bunks. One of these, when he was finished, walked in my direction.

He had a dusty brown hair, with a buzz cut which had grown a bit, and a thin scraggly goatee with a moustache of the same fullness. His eyes were deep set and slightly squinted. He was shirtless, but had a t shirt tucked into his front pocket partially covering his number.

His arms were long and not too thick, but very strong. His abs were a kind of slight six pack, but his waist was not overly small. The carpenter jeans and the boots added to the blocky beauty of this man. There was a large hole in the left knee of his jeans, but it only opened when he walked. He looked right at me, and I sat up. I saw as he grew closer that his number was C-014D. This was my bunk mate. “What’s up man?” he said to me in a deep southern drawl.

“Not a whole lot,” I replied in my bland Michigan accent, fighting a losing battle against a hardon.

“Name’s Craig.” he said. “You?”

“Matt.” I said.

“Well dude, I guess I’m your bunk mate. You done much workin before?”

“Uh, not much of this heavy shit they keep telling me about, but yeah.” How the hell could pulling a few levers and moving a few parts compare to the kind of hell this man had gone through; the kind of hell that awaited me?

“Man you got a long day tomorrow. I’ll show you the ropes though. Come on with me. Let’s get some chow for you.” I was a good judge of character, and in my intuition told me that this was a man I could trust, and depend on.

At that point, I didn’t care if I had been handed a bowl of pine needles and spit. I would have savored it like lobster bisque. I followed him to the mess hall, and stood in line with him. I watched a steaming ladle dish out a thin reddish brown broth with a few chunks in it.

I watched eager convicts hold their full bowls reverently as if they had just been given communion, their eyes filled with the mercy of food. Craig gave the man two semi circular wooden coins, and he received two bowls of chow. We sat down on a long bench at a long table, He handed me a spoon, and we both dug in.

If I hadn’t been so clean, you would think that I had just worked a full day the way I ate. Craig knew to give me a bit of credit though, as he knew I probably hadn’t eaten in a few days. He also had two thick slices of bread, but he slid these into his pocket. The mess hall was not full, and those who stayed in the bunk house did not get a daily credit due to some infraction or other that they had committed. If they ate, it was because cons looked out for each other. If they didn’t eat, there’s a good chance that no one else did either.

“So where you from man?” Craig asked, but I wasn’t quite sure how to answer him. From another dimension? From the past? From the future? Hell I didn’t even know how I had ended up in this ass backwards society. I just woke up looking at the sky, with kids kicking my shins.

“Michigan.” I said.

“What? Never heard of that region. North, south, east or west man?”

“North I guess then.” I said. I suppose north still meant cold winters here.

“You’re a nobleman? Damn man. That’s rough windin up in here. What the hell did you do?”

“I’m not a nobleman.” I said. “Look, I think I came from a different world or something.”

“Oh, foreign born then. You don’t talk like one though you talk normal.”

“I guess that’s right. I try. I guess now I‘m just a convict though.” I didn’t really know what caste I would have fallen into before my conviction. No doubt an undesirable one

“Damn right man. Me too. That outside shit don‘t matter in here. We got Nobles, free born miners, foreigners, and hell a few of them used to be guards, but most of us are prison bred to one degree or another It don’t matter, we all get treated like shit.”

“Prison bred?” I asked.

“Wow. You are from out of town. That means we were poor, livin on the streets and shit. They call us prison bred because that’s were half of us end up. The other half die or try like hell to migrate if they can. Like I said though, if the poor class was the bottom rung, convicts are the floor. Us class D boys would be the dirt under the floor I guess.”

“I get the idea.” I said. “So what do I owe you for the food?”

“Not a damn thing. And I do mean that. We look out for each other in here, even if they don‘t return the favor. If one man goes without we try to help him out. That’s why I got this bread hangin out in my pocket. I’m taking it back to the dude in bunk 13. His name is Buck. He got his credits taken away because he kept free wipin.” My blank stare told him that I had no idea what that term meant. “You’ll find out tomorrow. We better get to bed. Long ass day tomorrow.”

We walked to our bunks, and I felt a little better. This guy was damn friendly, and I hadn’t once been called punk or chubb, or any other words from the guard’s colorful lexicon. I began to realize that despite my noble intentions, I was a killer like the rest of them. I had tried to save someone’s life, but I ended another one. In that sense I was guilty. Did that make me some bloodthirsty power hungry monster hell bent on anal rape? Absolutely not. The same was true of the 99 other convicts in that bunkhouse. Hmm, some of the bunks were still empty.

We got to our bunks, and in the bunk next to us on the bottom sat a thick necked guy with a blonde buzz cut. He had his hands folded between his outstretched knees, and his head bent down. Me and Craig sat on my bunk, and he lifted his head he spoke as if he was trying to mask tears. “C-stroke! Got some new meat?”

“I got some bread to go with it Bucko.” Craig said as he pulled the bread out of his pocket and picked some lint off.

“Got a name dude?” He said as he looked at me.

By now, I knew the type of attitude these guys had, and ribbing him back I said “I don’t know, you got a joint for me?”

He laughed and said “God damn man, should have asked me yesterday” and he turned out his pockets. “Guess I’ll never know now.“ I decided to let him figure my name out in his own good time. Either I or the bread had lifted his spirits.

“This kids alright Craig. You think he can hold out tomorrow?” said Buck.

“He wouldn’t surprise me either way.” Craig said turning to me. “What he means is can you work all day without passing out. You get a bit of an amnesty period with the guards when you’re new. The first year, if you pass out there’s no penalty. The second year, there’s only five straps at the end of the day if you pass out. After that, it’s a night in the short box when you come too, but by two years you’ll have toughened up enough to where you don’t have to worry about it. Don’t you dare try to fake it though, cause that’s always 5o straps, and a night in the box.”

“Uh..” I muttered.

“You’ll find out as you go. I don’t want to bum you out right now. Anyway, I say he’ll make it half the day.”

“I think he’ll pass out in like 5 hours.” said Buck.

“I got all day. He looks like a trooper even if he aint too strong.” said a lanky young man on top of buck’s bunk.

“Man Chet, you didn’t even look at him. You better take it easy tomorrow. You won‘t be done at quittin time.” said Buck.

“Just what the hell are you betting?” I asked.

“Who’s top tomorrow night.” said Buck. I didn’t know what a short box, or a strap was, but I didn’t need to be told what a top was. Maybe they weren’t all straight.

Craig looked at me and said. “Don’t worry. Man. If you don’t like it, I won’t do nothin to you.”

“Well.. Uh…I wouldn’t exactly…
.
“Mind?” Craig had finished my sentence. “If you want to fuck, we‘ll fuck. Most nights we‘ll be too tired, when we‘re not, we’ll just flip a coin.”

“Where’s the fun in that? Night!” said Buck. They were both too tired that night.

Craig got off my bed, and unzipped my pants. My cock sprang out, and he took his out too. I heard a lot of grunt, and moans coming from the other cons. Some were doing anal, some were frotting, and some were giving and receiving blowjobs. “Heads. You win.” Craig said and smiled at me, and then put his large hollow mouth on my wide stubby dick. His tongue stroked the underside of my head, and went up and down the bottom of it. I’d been seeing brutal guards and sweaty working men all day, and I didn’t need much coaxing. It wasn’t long before I shot a little bit out, but he kept going, and I continued to cum. I moaned, and muttered many a “fuck yeah” and shot another big load. Craig swallowed. He had been stroking his own dick with his dirty, long fingers and he came. He then removed his mouth. We both sat there breathing for a second, and then Craig grabbed two rags from the bucket. We wiped off our dicks, and he moped up his cum off the floor, and we hung the rags back in the bucket. Craig climbed up into his bunk, and kicked off his boots.

“Tomorrow night, it’s tails. I win.” he said.

“Fine by me.” I said. I kicked my boots off, and I slept in my jeans smiling wide, for the moment forgetting the hard day that awaited me.

Chapter 9

04:20 AM- There is a loud metal clanging from the other side of the bunk house. “GET ON UP CONVICTS!” screamed a clear voiced southern prick. “RISE AND SHINE FAGGOTS!”

I opened my eyes and saw Buck hurriedly throwing on his boots. This was it. No more stalling. Today, I began hard labor. I threw my boots on, and stepped out in front of my bunk. Craig was standing there wearing his shirt, and taking a leak. I whipped my dick out and did the same. We then zipped our pants back up and filed out to the mess hall.

Rather than having to wait in line, we went straight to the tables where bowls of mush were already sitting. We sat down and ate hurriedly, mostly in silence. Between large bites, I asked Craig “What kind of work we doin?”

“Breakin rocks.” he said “makin little ones out of big ones.”

:”How long do we have to work?”

“20 hours.” he said with a mouth full of grits.

The grits were mealy, stone cold and flavorless, but served on top were strips of a kind of white fatty meat which had the mouth feel of pure gristle, only it was easier to chew and swallow. “Eat it all dude. It ain’t nothing for taste, but it’s gonna be the same thing every morning, and it’s all you’re gettin till midday.”

“20 hours, but god damn, that only leaves us 4 to sleep!”

“Leaves us 7 to sleep, and three hours for transit, meals, and rec time. Don’t you know anything?”

I learned that in this world, they measured time very differently. An hour and every measure of time shorter than that was exactly the same as in my old world, but the days consisted of 30 hours. A week was 10 of those thirty hour days, a month was five of those weeks, and a year was fifteen of those months. 100 years was called a turn.

Most of the free born men of that society worked 10 hour days in mines. This was actually fairly leisurely for them. They would work 10 hour days, sleep 10, and have 10 hours to do with what they pleased. Not so for the convict. The 10 hours free men used for recreation, cons used to break more rocks, dig more holes, or cut more cane. Some of the miners would drink beer and shoot the shit while watching the road crews work.

It was an extremely masculine society I found myself in, and I was at the very masculine bottom of it. If there was any art, it was utilitarian in nature. Even the women had a kind of practical sensibility and strength, and were not subject to flights of fancy or wild emotions. I wouldn’t be seeing many women. I didn’t mind that of course, but some of the straight prisoners got really excited when they saw one while working on a road crew. It was hard being able to look but not to touch. Watching the men’s faces as they fantasized about the woman was both arousing and depressing. The rock quarry offered none of these interesting occurrences though, and it was here that I was to begin my life at hard labor.

When we finished eating, we got up, and filed out. We marched past the small sheds I noticed on my way in, and some of the convicts hit the top of them with their palms. It was then that I learned what they kept in there. I saw a mans finger clawing out through one of a few small holes in the wood. They were convicts, serving long terms in the box for recurrent disciplinary problems. The tapping was part of a vein attempt to show these poor souls that we cared. We couldn’t do anything else for them at the risk of getting put in ourselves.

As I thought about being trapped in that box, I knew how the ex-con at the court house must have felt sending me off to toil in a rock quarry. If he tried to help me, we’d both end up there. We marched past a larger shed which contained picks, shovels, sledge hammers, and other tools. Pete and another trustee had a rack of sledgehammers out, and were handing them to the convicts as they walked by. I took one, and the weight of it surprised me. How the hell was I going to swing this thing once, much less all day? I hefted it up in my hands trying to get a feel for it, and I got a hold of myself. It wasn’t impossibly heavy, but it would be tough going, swinging it all day.

We walked down a steep hill toward our worksite. “Great. We’ll have to walk up this hill at the end of the day.” I thought, and it was a fairly steep grade, though nothing dangerous. We came to a spot which was strewn with large boulders, and several guards standing around smoking, sipping coffee and waiting for us. These were the working bosses. Some were thick and hairy, some like me were stocky and thick necked. Most of them were mean, colossal assholes, but a few were of the type that appreciated a man who made an effort.

Boss number 11 was one of the latter, but he didn’t tolerate any bullshit from his convicts. Trustees were fairly evenly spread out, and held numbered signs. Large bucket of water sat at their feet. “We go over here. Number 11.” Craig said. He had heard the guard counting us and giving us our assignments as we filed out of the mess hall.

Me, Craig, Buck Chet, and six other strong convicts gathered around the 11 sign, and waited for the boss to give us orders. He pointed to two mammoth boulders, and said to the other six, “you six get on them“. They shouldered their hammers, walked over and began to work. He motioned to a group of smaller boulders. “You four can work the chaff. What do we got, new meat today? Craig, you teach him.”

“Right boss.” said Craig in a low submissive tone. Buck and Chet began to pound a few of the larger ones.

“You ever swing a sledge?” Craig asked me.

“Uh once or twice…” I replied.

“Lemme see.”

I gripped the hammer one hand a little above the base, and the other close to the head. I lifted it up, and bringing my top hand down to my bottom hand all while bending down to reach the rock, I struck it with all the power I could produce. The rock just shivered a bit, and there was a bit of dust flying up. I felt like a tool. I was such a weakling.

“Yep, you got her. Now, keep on doin it, and don‘t stop till the boss man says you can. If you need to wipe the sweat off your face, ask him. If you need water, ask him. Want to take your shirt off, ask him. If you need to take a leak, ask him. Wait till he says it‘s alright, do it, and then get right back to work. The only think you don‘t need permission to do is bust rocks.” Said Craig, and then he started to swing. I soon followed. After a few swings, Craig said to me, “Damn kid, you’re a natural. Usually I have to teach people to swing it the right way. I have to get behind them and hold their arms like I’m teaching baseball!.”

I lifted, the hammer, I brought it down. I lifted, the hammer, I brought it down. I lifted, the hammer, I brought it down. Time after time, Swing after swing, minute after minute. My full upper body went into every motion. From fully erect to crouching down to the ground. Eventually, the rock I was hitting began to crack, and then finally to break. I was sweating bullets, I was aching, and I was panting loudly. My legs were steaming hot in my jeans. I asked Craig under my breath if it was ok to pull my jeans up and expose my legs, but he shook his head no. This was against prison rules. You had to wear long pants at all times during work hours both to protect your legs, and to heighten the punishment.

“Break that half down again. Get em down to man sized.” Said Craig. Man sized meant that two or less men could lift the rock off the ground, and put it in a cart. I pounded a few more times, and the half split. “Alright move on to that one.” There was another larger rock. As I lifted for another swing, I glanced at the large boulders. Three men were on either one. One was lying down on the bare rock holding and turning a hand drill while the other two struck the top of it with sledgehammers.

I kept swinging. Here I was. “Breakin rocks in the hot sun” just like the song said. I looked briefly at the guard who was standing with his arms crossed, and holding a thick strap of leather. His shock baton rested at his side. There was no escape from this. I had to work, and I couldn’t stop or I’d get the business end of that baton. I shook my head, and continued. I was done resisting and being confused about all of this. I had my mind dead set on my work, and I thought about nothing else. Even the joy of last night’s BJ soon ebbed out of my mind, along with the rage at being wrongfully convicted, and the confusion of finding myself in this strange world which was becoming less strange with each swing of the sledge. I had my “mind on the grind” as both con and boss said. That meant, that I was working as hard as I could, and I wasn’t thinking about anything else.

I continued like this for an hour. The guard knew I was green, and he expected me to be a little slow. “Chet! Pick up that pace boy.” He barked. “Yeah boss.” he replied between swings, and swung with greater frequency. I was getting really hot, and there was sweat starting to roll down towards my eyes. Almost instinctively I said that iconic phrase from so many prison movies I’d seen. “Wipin’ it off boss.” I continued to work as Craig had told me to do until I heard an affirmative from the boss man.

“Yeah, wipe it off.” he said. I set down my sledge, and lifted my shirt to my forehead to wipe it off. I then cracked my neck, picked up my sledge and started again.

I lifted, the hammer, I brought it down. I lifted, the hammer, I brought it down. This was getting damn tedious. Damn my legs were hot. I would have given anything to be wearing a pair of shorts, but shorts weren’t men’s clothes. I swung again, and looked at my jeans. They were already covered in the greyish brown dust of the earth around me, and so were my boots.

After another few hours, I had finished another boulder and started on another. This one was much larger, and Craig was on the other side of it pounding away. “How you doin?” He said.

“Doin alright.” I said as my hammer came down. I glanced first at his chest which was gleaming with sweat, and then at my shirt which was yellow, and soaked with sweat. “Takin it off boss.” I said.

“Yeah take it off. Not bad so far for your first day convict.”

“Thank you boss.” I said. With a few hundred swings of the sledge, that chubby little factory drone with delusions of fame in the art community had gone to the wayside of my mind. I felt tough, I felt beat down, and I felt like a man for the first time in my life. This was what real men did. Busting their ass doing hot miserable work for some rich money counter who had better luck and better sense than us blue collar drudges. Never offering a word of complaint, only asking a few basic needs, and graciously reviving them when given.

After a few more hours though, that chubby kid came roaring back. My mind and my resolve may have been a real man’s but my body wasn’t used to this at all. After 5 hours or toil, I began to think that if I had been doing some odd yard work job with my family or friends, now would be the time I’d sit down and have a beer. The guard then barked out “2 minutes boys, grab some water!” It wasn‘t beer, but I‘d take it any day.

I pulled the galvanized metal ladle up to my parched throat, and drank. It was well water. That old metallic taste that I’d hated whenever I’d vacationed somewhere up north as a kid. Still, it was cold, and clean despite the heat and the dust. I thought to myself “If I’m going to be swinging a sledgehammer for the rest of eternity, I’d better learn to like well water.”

We stood there for a few minutes and cracked our backs, and I took another long drink of water. The taste was not so repulsive. Craig and Chet took a wad of tobacco out of a can they kept in their back left pocket. Chet gave a wad to Buck. “That’s the last till tonight dude.”

Craig said to me “I’m out too, and I kinda figured you didn’t do this stuff yet, so I took it. You don’t need any do you?”

“Naw, that’s alright.” I said.

After that very brief respite, we were back to work. I had achieved a kind of second wind, and it seemed like the rocks were taking less of my hits before they cracked. After 8 hours of work, the guard said “Alright boys, start loadin.” There were deep carts nearby, and all ten people in our crew set down their hammers, and began to bend over and pick up the rocks; throwing them in the carts while large convicts attending the carts stood by. .

It was hard for me to lift some, and I couldn’t lift others alone. Craig stooped down and grabbed one end of one. “Ready? 1, 2, 3.” And we both strained. I could see Craig’s neck muscles straining and his fingers shake until we finally got the rock in the cart.

The other men had broken far more rocks than I had. Ten man sizes rocks, matched each one of mine, and the next two hours was spent picking them all up. At this stage, I was really beginning to feel exhaustion. My fingers were dirty and blistered. They ringed with pain every time I touched a rock. After two carts were full, a couple of the large convicts in sweat drenched, filthy and worn bib overalls came and pushed them away. Had I been a douche bag like my old boss, I would have assumed that they were mentally challenged, as they neither looked at, or talked to us. The truth is, that they were just really big men; well suited to the task of pushing the full carts, and then unloading them. They weren’t much on words.

“Alright boys, chow time.” Said the boss, and pointed to a trustee standing at a big pot with a ladle. Was I hearing right? We could stop? This has got to be some kind of initiation or something. Some joke. I dropped my sledge like a hot iron, and slumped over to the steaming pot.

We all picked up a metallic flat bowl, which the trustee then filled with navy beans. There was a bit of the same meat from breakfast in them, but it was finely chopped. There was nothing like spices, or onions, but there was molasses mixed in with them. We also got a slice of tough, crusty white bread, and all the water we could drink. This was the final free meal of the day, and we got a whole half hour to eat it and relax before we went back to work.

Before I started to eat, I laid down and panted. I was close to passing out, thought I didn’t know it. The others tried to talk to me to see if I was ok. Getting really quiet and depressed when you were working was a sign of heat exhaustion, and was a good indicator that someone was getting really dehydrated, and in danger of passing out. I wasn‘t exactly depressed, but I was dog tired, and glad to get off my feet.

After a few seconds of lying down, I decided that I‘d better chow this shit down before I tried to relax. I sat up, and dug in. “Damn, you done good bud!” Craig said as he socked me in the arm, and patted me on the head. “I really didn’t think you’d make it two hours, but you made it clear to mid day! You impressed the boss man too, but it’s like I said. You can give out, but don’t you dare give up.”

“I don’t plan on it. I don’t know how it would benefit me to give up. I am damn tired though.” I said, and put another heaping spoonful of the beans in my mouth.

“So am I man. This shit gets easier, but it never, never, gets easy.” Craig said. I kind of thought that it would. The day before, Craig had plenty of energy to suck me off, and I assumed that was because this shit didn’t faze him, but as I looked at him, he was breathing just as heavy as I was. He was just as sore, and just as hot.

Swallowing my last bit of bread, I took another drink and I laid down. I shut my eyes, and dozed. It seemed like no time before the boss man said “Alright, Back to workin.” Craig nudged me awake, and I struggled to my still aching feet. We started in with the sledgehammers again. I lifted, the hammer, I brought it down. I did so several more times as I could feel my arm strain. I was beginning to breathe heavier until each swing and breath felt like I was gasping for air in a crowded room. Finally, after a few final gasps, my hammer came down, cracked the rock I was hitting, and I fell, flat on my face and I saw no more that day other that Craig Looking down at me saying “Man out here boss!”

Chapter 10-

When I came to, I was back in the bunkhouse staring at the knots in the wood. I made the uphill trek that I had dreaded at the start of the day being carted in a wheelbarrow by Craig. I felt sick, so sick that I couldn’t eat if I had a credit to spend on the evening meal. I felt in my front pocket, and there was a semi circular wooden object. I took it out, and saw the letters 1 CR with part of the R cut off. I sat up unsure of my surroundings.

I was just about to start another rock, and then I had died. Why was I awake? I really thought I had beaten them at their own game. I didn’t give up, because I knew if I didn’t I would die. Yet here I was. Still filthy, and with half a credit in my hand. I thought of that Greek funeral practice of leaving coins with the dead so they could pay to get across the Styx. Maybe this was some crude version of it.

There were cons walking back and forth. I saw that there was a bit of light left through the windows. “Hey, he’s up! I heard. Chet had been tossing playing cards into a flat topped blue hat with a straight, short brim. Buck was sitting at the other end of the bunk next to me, staring at the hat, but he looked up when he saw me. Both were beaming with joy to see me up.

“What the hell happened to me?” I asked rubbing my eyes.

“Passed out. Glad you waited till then to do it too! One hour earlier, and it would have been a draw.” he said tossing another card.

“Hah.” I had forgotten his little wager with Buck. “What the hell is this for?” I asked holding up the wooden chip.

“You did half a day’s work, so the boss man saw fit to give you half a cred.” he said. “Most of you pasty foreign boys don’t make it ten minutes before you’re wailing for mom, or god or whoever. You gave em’ ten hours of your best effort, even if you didn’t break that many. That counts man. That counts with bosses and cons.”

I noticed that there were a few people staring at me with half smiles on their faces. One guy nodded at me. I nodded back. These guys accepted me. They liked me. Maybe breaking my back all day, every day was worth that. “I really thought I died there for a minute.”

“HE HE HE! Oh man!” Chet squinted his eyes, leaned back and laughed, and he missed the hat for the first time. “That’d be a first, and it couldn’t happen to a better dude.” I looked at him confused. “ Damn, you don’t know do you? Remember that blue shit they shot in you when you came in?” I nodded yes. I barley did, even though it was yesterday.

“That shit keeps you from diein’. It keeps you from getting old, and it keeps you from getting sick and injured too. If they hadn’t given it to you, you wouldn’t have lasted as long as you did. It’s slowly makin you stronger, but the willpower has to come from you. No, you aint diein’ man, but if you do, let me know how!”

That was what eternity meant then. It wasn’t just some grotesque over statement meaning the rest of my life. It really was eternity. Would the prison last that long? That didn’t matter, because, I would last as long as it did, and from the look of the place, it didn’t look like it was going anywhere.

The justice system here operated on the notion that a man should pay for his crime. Death was not an effective punishment, as it offered the possibility of release and redemption. No, the likes of me should be worked, and worked hard, given little comfort, and no reprieve. I looked at my bare feet (they had been kind enough to remove my boots, and put them on the floor by my bunk) and sighed.

Eternity. The word kept playing over in my head. I’d get up and work tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after. After so many days, I would like to have one off, but that wouldn’t happen.

“Hey man, don’t let it get you down. You aint the only one anyway. We’re here for ya man.” Said Buck. I was beginning to like him almost as much as I liked Craig. Chet was a good guy, but seemed way to cocky.

“Thanks dude.” I said. There were tears somewhere behind my eyes, but I shut them, and they slid back into my soul. I looked at my credit, and remembered how Craig had got me an evening meal last night. I decided I’d pay him back. At the door to the front room where my hair had been cut was the canteen for this camp. I walked up there, and Pete poked his head up.

“Yo!” he said

“Hey. Gimmie a can of dip.” I said and handed him my credit.

“Short or long?” He asked, but I didn’t know Craig’s preference.”

“Long.” I said.

“There you go.” Pete said as he slid a red, circular can towards me. I opened it up, and it was filled to the brim with tightly packed tobacco in long strands.

I went to the mess hall where I found Craig sitting and eating. He looked up, and smiled, but didn’t talk with his full mouth. As I sat down, he said to a redhead sitting nearby “There he is! Look as this kid! Only missed ten minutes of rec!” They were precious minutes to miss, but some cons slept the whole time anyway so they could get ten hours of sleep. “How you feelin man?”

“I didn’t feel too good wakin up, but I’m ok.” I said. “Here. That’s for you.” I slid him the red can. He looked at it in disbelief. His credits had been docked by half for the rest of the week for being smart with the boss, and he wasn’t expecting to get any dip for ten days. This full can would last him five.

“All of it?” he asked me.

“Yep.” I confirmed. “I’m not hungry after passing out, and they gave me a half credit. I wasn’t expecting anything, and I figured I might as well get you back for yesterday.”

“You gave me the whole damn can! You’re a good dude. I mean that.” He said, and grabbed my shoulder. “Most dudes can wait to spend these things on a meal, and I wouldn’t have thought less of you if you had.”

“Like you said, I guess we just have to look out for each other in here.” I remembered him handing Buck a slice of lint covered bread. This was true, biblical generosity. “You’ve been damn good to me ever since I got here, and it’s made it easier for me.”

“You wanna try it at least?” Craig asked me opening the lid. I had always thought people who dipped were hot. Watching a man spit set me right off, and I saw plenty of it earlier in the quarry. I had never thought about trying it myself though. It was an unnecessary expense, and not exactly a classy thing to do. Then I looked at my jeans, and my number. I wasn’t exactly classy myself any more, and I never would be.

I took a little wad of it from the can which Craig was holding, and I slid it between my lower lip. Good god it burned. The whole table erupted in laughter as they watched my facial expressions, and I got a few slaps on the back which nearly made me spit it out. After a couple of seconds though, my lip was used to the burn I then got a rush of nicotine which I hadn’t experienced several years, and it calmed my muscles. From that day on, if I had a credit, I was spending it on a can of dip.

We walked back to the bunks. I took a shit, and then spit the tobacco out. I still wasn’t sure how I felt about it, and I damn sure wasn’t going to sleep with it in my mouth. Chet and Buck were asleep. Chet snored contently, while Buck tossed and turned in the bunk next to mine. They had already settled their wager, and had no doubt made another one at my expense.

Craig sat on my bunk and we talked a few minutes. He asked about what I had done when I told him, he laughed a bit and said “Holy shit.“ It turned out Craig’s case was also a miscarriage of justice. He was trying to defend himself against a fellow homeless man who had entirely lost his mind. The man first tried to kill Craig, but then looked at the sky, wailed loudly, and turned the knife on himself. The cops put 2 and 2 together, and came up with 164. Craig was found guilty of his murder, and sent to this harsh prison for attacking an “emotionally disturbed young man.” I stared at my boots, and then untied them and took them off.

:”I don’t think about it much.” said Craig. “Like I said, poor folks usually end up here anyway. They look for any excuse to get them off the streets and on a work farm. That rock we’re crushin, it’s used for road gravel. You’ll find that out when they got us buildin roads.”

“Us?” I said “I kind of thought that if they moved us to a different job, they would split us up.”

“No man. They move us in twos. Sorry man, you’re stuck with my lame ass.” Craig knew that I liked him. He was just trying to be funny. “That is unless you wanna split. You can tell the guard, and they’ll do it no question.”

I looked at him. “Nah, you’re alright.” I said. “Besides. It’s tails tonight.”

Craig was dumbfounded. He was damn sure I was too tired, and that he’d just be jerkin it tonight. I however had recovered my strength, and despite being sore, I was willing. I was sitting here with a man who actually gave a shit about me, and I wanted to let him know the feeling was mutual.

We both pulled down our Jeans, and I knelt on my bunk. He took out his long well veined cock, stroked it a few times, and began to insert it into my well spread ass. As I took it in, I grunted loud. Buck turned over in bed. I was surrounded by fucking and sleeping blue collar men, and I had one’s hard raunchy shaft slowly moving back and forth in my asshole.

Craig grabbed my thighs and rubbed them. He then reached under and cupped my stub in his rough, bony hands. He continued to thrust his own dick, and stroke mine. I shut my eyes and grunted. I thought about him spitting a brown stream of dip spit, and hefting a hammer, ready to take another swing. I cummed right on my blanket. Craig continued to thrust slowly, and picked up the speed moaning like an ape. He finally unleashed his load deep in my hole, and pulled out. We stayed there breathing heavily for a few moments, and then we went to the toilets to wipe our cocks off. When he shut the lid to the bucket, he came over, to me and took me in his arms. He put his tongue in my mouth, and we kissed, our jeans still hung around our knees, and rubbed our still erect cocks together. His rough hands scratched my sore back, and I tasted tobacco in his mouth.

“Guess we both win.” I said. “I call heads.“ He just smiled. We let go of each other, beyond satisfied.

“Better get to bed man. This place aint just hugs and drugs.” He said.

“Right.“ I said. “Thanks for being here man. I don’t know what the hell it’d be like without someone like you here.”

“It’d be complete hell.” he said. “I know. Before you came in, it’d been 10 years since I had a bunk mate that wasn‘t a complete, stuck up prick. Buck or someone would let me three way, but damn it wasn’t the same. I’d just try to be nice, to people, but nobody gave me a second thought. They just smiled said thanks and moved on. I needed a real friend, and I think you’re the first one I’ve ever had.”

I kissed him again. We pulled up our pants, and Craig climbed up. I laid down. I didn’t say so, because I couldn’t think of a masculine way to say it, but I loved him. I shut my eyes, and nodded off. The snoring 99 tired men couldn’t keep me awake.