by White, Walt
For some reasons, in their twisted heads, they thought they were doing something right. Or at least that was their excuse. They pushed the limits just because they could. They covered up inmate deaths so the Prison officials wouldn’t get in trouble. They would say he had a heart attack in the ambulance on the way to the hospital even though everyone knew the truth. However, the method provided them with the ability to say the inmate didn’t die on Prison soil. No death to report at the actual Prison and things go on they get their Federal funding and everyone who doesn’t know the truth is happy.
Who cared about a Federal Prisoner, anyway?
No one on the outside wanted to deal with what was happening in Prisons. So, no one questioned the number of inmates who died in ambulances. Most people would say it’s a good thing he died, one less felon in the world. It was several unfortunate people who overlook basic human needs.
Big Tokey talked little after he came out of the hole. He was polite to Stone and the rest of the Camp. The only thing he did was ask Miss Angie to transfer him to another Prison. He had enough of this one and wanted to leave this awful place.
BARBERSHOP
STONE HAD TO DRAG himself out of the hole the day the doors to freedom got opened. Stone had spent six weeks in the hole. His weak body mustered up all the strength it could to stumble out of the malicious hell.
The guards watched and followed as he made his way back to where all the other inmates were.
Everything moved in slow motion as his wrecked figure approached the rest of the Prisoners who stared at him in pity. His embarrassment got covered by his insane drive of hunger.
No one spoke a word as they watched him make his way to the showers. He was eager to rid himself of the filth he got exposed to in the hole.
After what seemed like an hour under the warm, non-scorching water, Stone decided it was time to present himself to the world again.
His first visit would be to get his head shaved.
Each week about six Barbers shared a tiny room inside the Camp main building called the Barbershop. It had an old Barber chair in the center of the room with filthy, aged mirrors all around the room. It had one radio with a small smuggled speaker that hid in the ceiling, and they pulled it down while guys were getting their hair cut.
The door was thick metal with one small window with a small curtain. There were no outside walls or windows in the room. It was sound proof. It was like being in another world for these guys for a short while. Exposed pipes rattled as water went through them hanging from the ceiling. An unknown inmate had painted black and white squares on the concrete floor to give it an authentic Barbershop feel. There was an old counter where the Barbers would place the few tools they had the job of cutting hair. Most guys learned on the job. These guys would say.
“Hey, I think I will become a Barber,”
Then mess around until they got good at cutting hair.
You’d get surprised at the number of guys who enjoyed doing the job. It was a way to express themselves artistically that included no pencil and a lined piece of paper. Though, they would never admit they liked it. But no one ever missed the small smile a Barber held as he worked. At that moment, he was in a position of power. Not just when came to a man’s self-esteem, but also physically. As he had in his possession a weapon that could kill a man in one swift motion.
“You could be dead right now if I wanted you to be,”
A Barber would joke as he snipped away at a guy’s head.
The inmate would laugh and shift in his seat, hoping the comment got said in a kidding manner. But you never knew for sure.
You could guess who Barbers had grudges against by the length of a guy’s hair. If you had any beef with a Barber, no one in their right mind would visit them for a trim. It was comical to watch guys walk around, claiming the one reason they didn’t cut their hair was that they liked it that way. No one liked long hair in Prison. It was too much of a hassle to take care of.
“It keeps my neck warm.” They would say.
The excuses got more and more ridiculous the more people inquired about the length.
Stone felt embarrassed for the guys who told everyone they liked long hair as everyone knew the truth. They feared the man who would cut their hair if they decided to.
Even if they had no grudge against you, they would never take advantage of their position. It was a great one to have. It would end with the Barber in the hole and keep them from ever cutting hair again. It wasn’t worth it to most Barbers. They would get their revenge in different ways so their cutting privileges would always get protected.
It was a good hustle as most guys would pay a sausage each week for a haircut. The bald fade was the most common cut you would see being performed. When guys got out of the hole, they got their entire head shaved because they looked like cavemen who hadn’t shaved in six months. No one protested as everyone agreed the single way of getting rid of the stench was by cutting it all off. Just keeping the ‘cut off’ hair in the trash can could stink up the room. So, keeping any on someone’s head was a death sentence to whoever hung around the guy.
Then the guys would experiment with their hair something you could never do on the outside. They would get mohawks, lines, symbols, and football logos. Hell, it was even common to see two guys bet with the loser getting the team that won logo shaved into their head. You saw Mullets, shaved heads, and even cartoon characters.
Stone smiled to himself as he reminisced about the first ridiculous haircut he ever saw in the Prison.
“What the hell is that?” Stone said.
“Who would do that to themselves?”
Stone’s eyes had caught on an inmate’s bald head. Though it was just bald, it had tiny dots of hair scattered across it, giving it a polka-dotted appearance. He gawked at how insane it had looked.
Nowadays, Stone couldn’t imagine ever having the same judgment against a crazy hairdo. He now realized how vital it was to keep creativity alive in prison. Without it, all you had was your monotone thoughts, which sunk one into depression. Keeping your creative side alive allowed you to push your past aside and express yourself. Stone did the same as everyone else getting a variety of haircuts, but he went with the bald fade because it felt the best.
If you had no hair on top, it felt weird, so a bald fade delivered that bit of hair to keep the sun from burning it feel. It wasn’t just hair on a man’s head that the Barbers would shave. They also trimmed fingernails and toenails in there for a sausage like women going to the spa. The fun part was listening to the music out loud instead of thru headphones. You miss music out loud when taken away from you. It was an excellent place to forget for a short while you were in Prison. While waiting on haircuts to kill time most watched shows in the TV rooms.
Everyday inmates watched TV with their headphones on. Every day, they had their spot inside the TV room where they put down their folding chair, and if someone was in their spot, they had an argument at the least or a big fight out back to settle the disagreement.
As Stone sat, waiting for his needed cut, he witnessed two guys fighting over a better seat in front of the TV. In his opinion, it was a pointless fight, but the guys in Prison got irritated over the tiniest things.
“Your fat ass has been sitting there for an hour.” One said.
The other sat in his chair with his fists balled.
“Neither of us has even been here for an hour. It’s been ten minutes.”
A guard sitting in the corner cleared his throat in warning, and the two guys backed off each other. The one standing lumbered over the wall and leaned against it as he waited for his name to get called. He crossed his arms and turned his focus to the TV.
Most people on the outside don’t realize how much they take TVs for granted. Inmates don’t even care what they’re watching if it is distracting from their everyday lives. TV rooms were a golden spot for older inmates because they didn’t exercise or participate in much. There were six TV viewing areas.
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Two in the back on each side by the laundry rooms.
Two on the interior walls that were standalone rooms,
Two in the big Visitation Room, one on each end.
The Blacks used both rooms by the Laundry, the Mexicans the two on the interior, and the Whites in the big Visitation room. If a person of a different color tried to sit down and watch something in an area, they didn’t belong there was trouble. It ended in a fight and someone getting thrown in the hole. And the guy decided he would mess up the balance.
The Whites loved watching Sons of Anarchy reruns and American Idol reruns. Also, the old Whites would sit and watch National News all day. The Mexicans would watch soap operas during the day, some sports and booty shows at night. They had TV shows that would come on and showgirls dancing at night clubs and the Mexicans would hoot and holler at the girls on TV. The Blacks watched sports and cooking shows. The two F’s Football and Fried Chicken.
Stone thought about the one and only fight he ever saw between a White and a Mexican in the TV room. He had been sitting and watching a random show with a few other guys he didn’t know. The room went dead silent when a stout Mexican inmate strutted in and plopped down in a seat.
Stone glanced around the room, trying to find the guy the Mexican was trying to piss off. His eyes landed on a White Prisoner he had never seen before who gritted his teeth at the Mexican’s presence.
The guard in the corner straightened up, ready to intervene. Everyone watched as the White guy approached the Mexican who sat.
“What the fuck are you doing in here?”
The White guy’s murderous stare bore down at the man.
“Watching TV.”
The emotionless response triggered a full-on attack from the White. He pounced on the Mexican, the chair shooting across the room and hitting the wall.
Stone stood as the two men wrestled on the floor, throwing punches at each other.
“Get the fuck off me!” The Mexican said.
“Break it up!”
The guard shouted as he spoke into his radio for backup.
A few more guards rushed in to untangle the men and keep them out of each other’s grasp. Stone got surprised by the strength of both men as they threw the guards off them and continued throwing fists at each other.
“We need back up!” Another guard shouted into his walkie-talkie.
A guard took out a gun and aimed at the White guy. Stone’s heart leaped, wondering if he wanted to kill one of them.
When the guard pulled the trigger, Stone realized it was a Taser gun. Bolts of electricity shook through the White guy, rendering him motionless. Another guard pulled out his own gun and did the same thing to the Mexican whose eyes rolled back as he slumped to the floor.
A few guards walked in to help carry the men off to the hole and Stone had no interest in watching any more TV. After the fight, he had returned to his bunk and took a nap.
“Stone.”
A guard’s voice broke his concentration.
“You’re up man.”
He stood, noticing a few guys glaring at him for getting to go before them. It was a mystery to him why they were so angry as they had to of noticed his ‘hole hair.'
“Haven’t seen you in a while, Stone.” Al, the Barber, said.
“You want it all shaved and razored?”
Stone studied himself in the mirror, for the first time realizing what the hole had done to him. His features got laced with exhaustion. Bags sat under his tired eyes and wrinkles from frowning had become permanent. He looked like a different man. Life had beaten him down.
“Yes, all of it, please.” Stone said.
“All right, did you see Big Mikey? He just came out with a bowl cut.”
He attempted to make small talk and Stone wasn’t in the mood.
Stone assumed once released all he would want to do was jabber, but he sat there in absolute silence. His mind got occupied by his next interaction with Big Tokey, and what would happen.
SOFTBALL DRAMA
APRIL THROUGH SEPTEMBER, the Prison Camp had Softball games. There were four softball teams, two White, one Black, and one Mexican. No one joined a team out of their race.
Each person treated the games like the World Series. Softball was serious business and provided bragging rights for the week. It was comical to watch how competitive some the guys got and how angry they got when someone on their team missed a catch.
The guards would laugh and say,
“Better start hitting’ em Joe. Otherwise, your teammates might turn that bat on you.”
The guards watched the game and joked about the players, just intervening when a fight broke out. They loved the drama almost as much as the inmates did. They had bets on how the games would end and get pissed themselves when a player messed up. There would always be one guard making the calls close and depending on what team he favored (or had a bet on), he would choose a winner. It was a bias system, but it worked, and the guys loved it.
Each team had a team coach and captain. They would have the batting line ups and fielding line-ups ready weeks before each game and know what they were doing for the upcoming games. Your best player would play shortstop and bat fourth or fifth in the line-up to maximize points scored. A typical score would be twenty-five to thirty points with only one run determining the winner. So, the games were close, and talent got balanced.
Games got held on Wednesday afternoons. The landscape crew kept the field immaculate. They would lie out chalk, cut the grass low, till the dirt with the right mixtures, and water the grass like crazy. Each team had a scorekeeper and a statistics guy. They would post batting averages with other stats on a bulletin board in the front of the Camp. Each team supporters would watch the scorekeepers like hawks to make sure there was no cheating going on.
Everyone played no matter if you were any good or not. If there were something inmates would pride themselves in, it was attendance and participation. Plus, after being cooped up in a building for months, it was an opportunity for some exercise no one would pass up. The Prison would even give you a participation certificate if you played in most games. Softball was what inmates talked about a lot and looked forward to.
The Prison bustled with excitement the closer it got to spring. The heads of each team weed out all the players they didn’t want and convinced all the ones they wanted why they would like their team.
Stone knew attention would have drawn him as most people knew about his football past and everyone sees him exercising on the track.
He didn’t expect Shotgun to approach him.
“Stone,” Shotgun said.
He walked up behind Stone one day while on the track and felt his hand slap against his back.
“What’s up Shotgun?” Stone said.
His heart skipped as millions of reasons of why he could talk to him fluttered through his mind.
“Softball season’s coming up. You’d be a great fit for our team.” He said.
Stone smirked as he listened to the same words the other White team leader, G-ray, had spoken to him a week before.
“What about him?”
Stone gestured to a well-known White inmate who was overweight. It was a wonder to everyone in the Prison how he had lost no weight yet due to the lack of sustenance in the facility.
Stone’s jab didn’t go unnoticed, but he didn’t care. He had already agreed to be on G-ray’s team, so he didn’t need Shotgun’s.
Shotgun narrowed his eyes at the dismissive attitude.
“Whatever, be on the losing team.” Shotgun said.
He spat and walked away.
The morning of the first game, Stone was shocked at the massive turnout. It was as if everyone in the Prison had shown to watch the battle.
He surveyed his competition that practiced on the field. The Black team threw insane curve balls at each other while Javil, their head coach, and faction leader shouted at them. A few yards away, the Mexicans jabbered with one another about how
they would murder the other teams on the field. The last team his eyes landed on was Shotguns. Stone had to admit, they looked like professionals as they practiced, but he knew his team was better.
“How the hell do guys play like that?” Stone said.
A White player and gestured towards Big Tokey and Mexican Faction Leader Big Grun.
“Their fat asses can’t run, let alone pick up a goddamn ball. So, they’re catchers.” He said.
“All they have to do is run to first base, then call for a pinch runner to finish the bases for them.”
“That’s sad.” Stone said.
He pointed at two or three skinny guys on our team.
“Those are our right field and first basemen. They're the worst on our team. You ever get that position, just know we're looking for your replacement.”
“It’s a good thing most of these guys hit the ball between third and second most of the time.” Stone said.
“You're damn right it is. If your ever-short stop, pitcher, third base, or left field, you’re pretty much irreplaceable. At that point, you're one of the best guys on the whole team. Those are the positions where all the action happens.”
The guy appeared wistful as if he imagined himself in those positions.
Stone shifted his weight.
“Are all these guys great players?” Stone said.
“Don’t worry, you exercise more than most of the guys on our team. You’ll do fine, and if you don’t, the fun part of it is the hecklers. Everyone forgets each other’s fuck ups within a week, even if they act like they don’t.” The guy said.
Once the game started Stone got bewildered at the downright crazy heckling amongst the players. The first teams up were the Mexicans vs. Shotgun’s, and there was no mercy.
Every time a call got made for the Mexican team a White guy would throw down his mitt and explode into a fit of anger. And vice versa.