Stone Sharp Vol.1

by White, Walt

  Stone smiled to himself as he remembered witnessing a few black men watch a heated basketball game between their favorite team and its rival. Their shouting and chanting had been more entertaining than the game itself.

  The last group was the Mexicans who played handball and regularly awaited the next episode of their favorite series and soap operas.

  “Different races here don’t mix, do they Z,” I said.

  “No, they don’t, but I don’t give a shit because no group wants to associate with me in here.”

  He shifted his weight uncomfortably.

  “You’re not so bad,” I said.

  Stone knew Z didn’t know why the other inmates despised him so much though he had the looming sense that it was due to his race. It was disappointing as he seemed to be a decent guy.

  “Thanks.” He responded.

  “Tell me more about the different sub-groups?” I said changing the subject.

  “Ok.”

  “There are sub-groups of the larger groups.” He said.

  “Whites have the Christian Group, the White Supremacists, the Business Guys, the Old Guys and everyone else who doesn’t fit into one of those groups.”

  Z’s eyes flicked up, peaking Stone’s interest to follow his eye line. Two balding, middle-aged white guys headed down the hallway, leaving no room for anyone to easily slip past them.

  “Speak of the damn Devils,” Z said.

  Stone tried to avoid eye contact but couldn’t escape the penetrating stares of the White Supremacists. As the moment came to pass them, Stone felt one of their shoulders bump him, causing him to stumble against the wall. Stone stopped in shock as Z struggled to move past them without being shoved.

  He had to hand it to Z, for such an intense guy, he held his tongue throughout the whole encounter. Though Stone wasn’t prepared to do the same thing. He opened his mouth to shout something but stopped when his eyes landed on the guard watching from a few feet away.

  He stood with one hand resting on his holster while the other hovered over his radio, ready to call for backup.

  “Move along inmates.” He demanded.

  “C’mon Stone, it’s not worth it,” Z said.

  The two white guys didn’t budge or break eye contact until Stone started walking.

  “What the hell was that?” Stone asked once they were out of earshot.

  “It’s because you were with me. Those guys are nasty.” Z said.

  Thick silence had settled between the two before Stone cleared his throat,

  “So, you were talking about the factions.”

  “Right,” Z said.

  Z was thankful for another subject change.

  “Blacks have Basketball and Card Playing Guys, Old Guys, and Black Panther Types.”

  “Mexicans are all together; they accepted everyone that was Mexican even rival gang members from the outside. They speak Spanish to each other and ignore everyone else.” Z said.

  “I don’t understand this place,” I said.

  "There is a ton of bullshit in Prison. You just saw some.” Z said.

  Stone felt enlightened yet puzzled by this world. It was like all the strides society had made against prejudice had never happened in this place. It was frozen in time to one hundred years ago and never advanced past that point. The way Z spoke was a way that would never be accepted on the outside. He talked about the different races, without a filter and no one became angry when they overheard.

  “Each race has guys who do specifics jobs for them. Everyone has a laundry guy you pay through Commissary to do your laundry. Like I said, races don’t mix. He will come by and get your laundry bag hanging on your bunk every day and wash your clothes, sheets and make your bed once a week.” Z said.

  “How much does it cost?” I said.

  “The price is in summer sausages. Three sausages a month. About ten dollars in Commissary.” Z said.

  “It’s a great hustle, about fifty guys paying them every month.”

  “That’s a lot of sausages,” I said.

  “Sausages are cash in here. They price everything in them.” Z said.

  “Meat is at a premium here in Prison because everyone lifts weights in case they need to use their muscles in defense. If there is anything in here, that gets respect its muscles; White, Black or Mexican. The strong survive, and the weak get picked on and robbed daily.” Z said.

  “That makes sense,” I said.

  “So being too fat or scrawny won’t work out in here,” Z said.

  Z’s eyes flicked over Stone’s physique.

  He attempted to keep it subtle though he still caught his stare regardless and felt self-conscious. Stone was an average size and well-built guy but at the time a little overweight.

  “That belly won’t work in this place,” Z said.

  “Thanks, Asshole,” I said.

  Still confused by the works of the place, Stone implored for more information,

  “This is like bargaining for goods in the wild west when there was no money supply.”

  “Yeah, this is backward ass shit, I do not deny it,” Z said.

  “Count, Count inmates, what the hell are you doing over here? Get back to your bunks.” A guard approached Stone and Z.

  Stone looked around and noticed that inmates were rushing down the halls and guards were shouting. Stone had become so invested in the conversation he hadn’t even noticed the commotion.

  Without another word, Stone was caught in the flurry of people. It was hard enough for him to remember the exact way to his bunk without the dozens of impatient men shouting to get past people.

  Once he found his way, he took his place in line and remained in silence for what seemed like hours while the guards checked each inmate.

  Why is this taking so long? Stone thought.

  “Never takes this long. Someone ain't in their fucking spot.” The guy next to him said.

  After the guards had dismissed the inmates, Stone decided to stay at his bunk and wait for lights out. He didn’t like the alone time as it forced him to reminisce about his past mistakes.

  He closed his eyes and pictured his daughter’s radiant smile and replayed her innocent laugh in his mind.

  His nerves eased by the thought of the little girl, he rolled on his side and drifted off into a restless sleep.

  The next morning Stone could barely sit up from the strain in his back caused by the hard mattress.

  “Get up, were walking outside today.” Z loomed over Stone’s bed.

  He nodded and tied his shoes before following Z. They didn’t talk for a few moments until Stone had to break the silence.

  “So, you were talking about jobs yesterday…”

  “Damn Stone, you gotta know everything about this place, don’t you?”

  “I think I was about to tell you about the medical guys. Each group has a doctor. You go to him for an adjustment after working out, or if you need medicine. Typically, an old man who was a doctor on the outside or acted like he was.” Z said.

  “I wonder how inmates trust him?”

  “Do you ever check your real doctor’s credentials or just trust what he says?” Z said.

  “I get your point,” I replied.

  “If you needed pain relievers or antibiotics, he has it. Or if you needed advice on what part of your body was aching this guy will know something. It’s a good hustle, even if you fake the experience. It’s not the best system, but it works, and they give decent advice regardless of their backgrounds.”

  Stone pushed open the door that led to the track. He took a moment to relish in the fresh air that he had always taken for granted previous to his incarceration. The track wasn’t the prettiest sight, but it was at least a break from the hell hole inside the building.

  “You also have a guy with a store, more of a black market. He will keep hundreds of items both on the commissary list and not. So, if you can’t get money sent to you, you buy from the store man of your group. The catch is, they’ll charge int
erest.”

  “And I guess it’ll be easy to fall into debt with them cause of that.”

  “Trust me you don’t want to be in debt to anyone in here. And if you don’t pay you’re cut off from everything.” Z said.

  “It’s kinda like a convenience store. About a thirty percent markup is common if not fifty percent on some items, it all depends on how important the item is. They’re also the best bookkeepers in the group, like accountants. They always have items you can’t even get in the Commissary. It’s one of the best gigs in Prison but an earned position. You don’t just get handed the gig a few days after you arrive."

  "Customarily, an inmate who has served time for a while and has plenty of money being sent to them from the outside gets it. Someone who knows everybody and gets along with almost everyone.”

  Stone crossed his arms and kicked at a pebble onto the track. A few guys were jogging outside, so it was quiet besides the constant chirping of birds.

  “Last, you have your headphone repair guy and your guy that irons for visitation days, everyone in the place has a hustle. It is the way you thrive. Like a small rural town with all your different stores on the main street. If you don’t have a hustle, then you’ll struggle.”

  Soaking in his words, Stone realized he must find a hustle soon if he would thrive. But what would it be? He didn’t even know what he would excel at besides flowcharts and numbers. Stone was a Mortgage Banker, what could he do to make his way in this crowd of people? He got plucked from his comfortable living and thrust into a cut throat, strange world.

  Hustling seemed tough until you get assigned a job that would be your official work. Slave labor seemed to be the appropriate term. You earned around nine dollars a month which wasn’t even enough to buy Commissary and without that, you were an outcast. You’d be Prison poor and without the money to buy essentials and food, you’d be better off being homeless.

  Z nodded to a man sitting alone on the bleachers with his head between his legs. “Guy’s throwing up because he doesn’t have any food.”

  Stone took a closer look and noticed how scrawny the tanned man looked. He felt sympathy for the guy as he couldn’t be any younger than seventy.

  He watched as the man spit and rubbed his face before returning to his bent-over position.

  “That’s what happens when you don’t have anything in here. You end up alone, slowly dying and no one even cares.”

  “It’s sad.” Stone said.

  Stone turned his attention back to the track. He couldn’t imagine being alone in the facility. It was isolating enough being in jail. Being outcasted and left to starve had to be a living hell.

  “Prison isn’t always like that for people. If your part of a group you have advantages. Certain groups pulled everything together to combine resources. They were like a family unit, your Prison family. They’ll throw you big birthday parties, take care of you when you’re sick, and protect you when you’re in trouble.”

  “Not like anyone’s doing that for me,” Z said.

  “How do groups like that keep organized?” Stone said.

  “There’s a leader of each group who’s more like a father figure. He’s the strongest and most knowledgeable. Each faction has individuals who rise to lead the other morons. Though it’s a dangerous job since you must deal with all the chaos between factions and make moves to protect your group, it was also a position that came with absolute respect and extreme power.

  Stone got intrigued by the sound of all of it. He couldn’t picture Z, or even himself being part of something like that. Z didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would let another inmate control him.

  Z remained an acquaintance, but the other inmates despised Stone’s association with him. He took a while to notice the negative looks he was receiving while walking on the track with Z.

  Stone refused to believe he had a prejudice bone in his body. Unlike his encounter with the White Supremacists, he thought he saw past color. Then again, this was a different world in here. It was like attitudes in the south during the early nineteen twenties. Where Whites and Blacks segregated into different worlds. Much to his embarrassment, he was aware of the differences in skin tone.

  Z was a Pakistani Muslim, which was worse than being Black in this place to the White group. He was the butt end of everyone’s jokes and despised by the Whites who refused to say even one word that would insinuate they had an inkling of kindness towards him.

  One day while Z and Stone waited in the long line for inedible slop, Stone caught the stares of a group of White Guys.

  Z, unaware of the glares, continued explaining a light-hearted joke an old friend had told him years ago. But Stone couldn’t help but feel their searing stares on his back or hear the angry whispering that came from their table.

  “Stone, what the hell is wrong with you?” Z said.

  His features immediately hardened.

  One guy laughed and shouted a few obscene words before acting out the death of a suicide bomber blowing up a fake vest.

  Red-faced, Z turned back around and kept his cool.

  “Those idiots think the only thing important in life is killing Muslims. All they do with their time is follow the wars in the middle east.”

  Stone took one last glance at the group who continued laughing and shouting. He felt bad for Z, as he knew the man was one of the most decent men in the facility. He could judge people from all the hiring done over the years in his businesses, and out of everyone he had encountered, Z was the most desirable in his eyes. He didn’t deserve the taunts of the closed-minded criminals that surrounded them.

  Stone didn’t care who he pissed off by remaining buddies with Z, though he knew the consequences.

  Stone continued his workouts for over two weeks, physically and mentally providing him with strength as he lost weight. The dirt track had become his friend, and he spent several hours each day walking and running.

  He liked to run early in the morning before most guys migrated outside for the day. He loved the solitude, even if it was for a short time. He appreciated the fact that running made him feel like he was achieving something during his day. He attempted to sweat out all the frustrations of the last few years on that track.

  “Hey Stone!”

  Pulled out of his trance, Stone raised his head and slowed his jog. He turned his head to find a short, rough looking man walking alongside him. Stone, quickened his pace as he had never seen the man in his life. The fact that the man knew his name sent red flags through Stone’s head.

  “Didn’t you hear me hollering?” He asked.

  “No, sorry I was running,” Stone responded.

  “Relax,” The guy said.

  “Just wondering if you were looking for any pick-me-ups.”

  Stone paused before realizing what he meant.

  He shook his head.

  “I'm all right.”

  The guy shrugged and slowed down,

  “Alright.”

  The man seemed surprised by Stone’s rejection but simply turned and walked away.

  Stone looked behind to see the unknown man walk towards a group of white guys. He noticed that a few of them were some of the same guys that were sitting at the table when Z was being verbally attacked. He couldn’t help but feel suspicious about the offer from a group that despised his only friend but decided to drop it.

  After all, many individuals tried to influence him, but his mind focused on getting healthy. He had no desire to screw up and land himself in this place longer than necessary.

  But that was soon to change. After two months in the Camp, every inmate got assigned a Prison Camp job by the administration. You had to take the job you got assigned, and if you tried to refuse or get out of it, they stuck you in the hole. All you could do was hope for the best outcome as they assigned each inmate their job.

  HUSTLES

  I KNEW I HAD TO FIND A HUSTLE. I found it comical how it was like starting a self-employed business on the outside. Each inmat
e had to find something they were good at making money. Making money meant you had to have a valuable talent Prisoners considered vital.

  The ironic thing was, men unsuccessful on the outside could become amazing business people on the inside.

  The compound was like a mini town where there were two-hundred individuals with every kind of store you could imagine. Bunk areas named neighborhoods, bunk rows named streets, the Camp building had east side and west side like sides to a city. It was as if the Prison was its own world, separated from reality.

  I wanted someone at the top to tell me more about hustles in this place. As much as I hated to admit it, Z was a part of the exiled world. He wouldn’t have all the information I needed to mesh well with the system. Since I conducted business with the heads of corporations, dealing with a head of the group seemed like what I needed to do.

  I remembered Z pointing out the White faction leader a couple times while we walked around the facility. He was bald with a huge flowing goatee and in his forties though acted as if he were in his twenties. I noticed his muscles bulged and flexed whenever an undesirable inmate walked past him. His piercing gray eyes revealed his troubled past life. Tattoos covered most of his body, and I could never make out what they were. Some looked faded, and some seemed completed a few days ago.

  I assumed talking to him would be my best bet, as he knew everything that went on with hustles.

  “Just be careful with him,” Z had warned me, “The guy can get vicious.”

  One afternoon while I was walking outside, I noticed his bulky figure sitting on a bench by the dirt track. He seemed engaged in a light-hearted conversation with some of his guys. I wanted to speak with him alone, but since he never was I assumed now was as good a time as any.

  I walked towards them with my hands shoved in my pocket as I tried to practice my first statement. The words failed my tongue every time I spoke to myself, enhancing my nerves.

  I stood steps away, staring at them as they looked so engrossed in their conversation. I attempted to make myself appear less threatening.