Rambo was an old school inmate I knew from County (Jail). He had a Frankenstein scar that ran straight down the length of his face; speculation abounded as to its origin. One cool afternoon he knocked on my cell door and asked, “Can I get som’n sweet out ya?” (Translation: Can I borrow a honey bun or some cookies?) Rambo was a State Baby (an inmate who lived off of state pay) I didn’t particularly like. We weren’t friends. He was a bully and a sore loser. But, as the only other Scrabble player in the building we often played marathon sessions in the dayroom. He had never asked me for anything before.
To give or not to give? That was the question. But first, some context.
Most prisons have an inmate “store.” It goes by many names: commissary, canteen, etc. Imagine a bodega that sells packaged junk food, basic hygiene items, and a limited selection of sweats, undergarments, and gym shoes (often made by other inmates at different facilities) and “made for institutions” electronics like clear 13′ inch TV’s and book lights at exorbitant markups. For example, a basic, generic 13′ TV will cost over $200 dollars and a 1970s-esque typewriter more than $400. A pair of cheap boxers can go for up to $12. This is also where inmates can buy minutes for phone calls and credits for the streaming music on their tablets.
Anyone can “put money on the books” (i.e., deposit money into an inmate’s trust fund account) via Western Union or specialty prison companies like GTL or JPay for a 10% fee. If you have a job, your wages, about $1 a day, will also be deposited into your trust fund.
Prisons used to distribute free basic hygiene supplies to inmates monthly, things like toilet paper, laundry soap, razors, bath soap, toothpaste, toothbrushes, and deodorant — even cigarettes up until the ‘90s. Then something changed and they decided to pare down the freebies to simply one roll of cheap TP a week and one small bottle of laundry detergent every couple months, but they would add $10 monthly to every inmate’s trust fund. Inmates could then choose what they wanted to buy at commissary. Ten dollars a month, even if budgeted well, can only barely cover one’s most basic needs. Forget about having a meal if you miss chow — no Zoo-Zoos or Wham-Whams to snack on when your stomach is eating your back. You’ll have to learn how to stretch a roll of toilet paper and, hopefully, never need an aspirin. You won’t be able to afford gloves or a hat for the bitter winter and if your state-issued clothes fall apart (as they tend to do). You’ll have to wait until your yearly allotment for a new set. Forget about having a TV or video tablet. Ever.
Most prison living quarters include a charity table. It could be a table, shelf, box, or even just a corner where inmates leave items they no longer need for a variety of reasons. When inmates are released or transfer from prison they will leave behind most of their belongings. The rule-of-thumb is that your cellie gets first dibs, then your prison-friends, and whatever left is tossed on the charity table. Also, the bougier inmates may give up gently used gym shoes (always updating their shoes when new options become available at store), food bowls, cable cords, extension cords, or blues (prison uniforms). I am not ashamed to admit I have taken a pair of gently used gym shoes as my “soccer” shoes. For the State Baby the charity table is vital. You’ll see them stalk the table, always hovering, making sure they can sift through any new donations first.
I grew up poor. My father reused paper towels; a habit I picked up and still practice to this day–much to my cellie’s dismay. As an adult, I was promoted into middle-class. In here, I am borderline rich–relatively speaking. I have multiple streams of income. My job, the highest paid in all of the prison system, clears me almost $200 a month. My family sends me an additional $100 a month. My writing makes me approximately $50 (on average) a month. My hustle (typing and writing letters for inmates) another $50 a month. That’s $400 a month more than we are even allowed to spend. I recently let my sister borrow $3,200 to help cover her medical bills. For those of you keeping track, that’s a 4,000% difference in income from the State Baby’s ten bucks.
I don’t know why some inmates don’t have any world relationships willing to help them.
Maybe they do and their pride keeps them from asking for help. Maybe they’re old and don’t have any family left or maybe their family is poor and can’t afford it. Or maybe they were pieces of shit.
I don’t know why they won’t get a prison job. Maybe they’re sickly and crippled. Maybe they take pride in not working like a slave for the Man for pennies on the dollar. Or maybe they’re lazy bastards.
I don’t know why they don’t get a prison hustle. Maybe they’re too good to wash another man’s clothes. Maybe they can’t draw, cut hair, or are scared of the prison politics and issues that can arise when conducting business with other inmates. Or maybe they’re human sloths.
The truth is, I don’t know and, furthermore, who am I to judge anyone else? How a man chooses to do his time in his choice. But should I feel obliged to help those that refuse to help themselves?
I will say, most of the State Babies I have ever met accept their limitations with a certain sense of humility. They go to every chow line–they really don’t have a choice, do they? They stalk the charity table and occasionally check the garbage for any discarded treasures, but you don’t see them asking for handouts.
There are always exceptions.
The Colonel, an old school Vietnam vet with 4 good teeth and a grumpy attitude, didn’t have a job, no hustle, and as far as I could tell, no money coming in. Yet, he was more than willing to go around the deck begging for a shot of coffee to satisfy his caffeine addiction. I could overlook the occasional request, but this was an everyday occurrence, sometimes multiple times a day. I got tired of his constant begging and bought him his own bag of coffee with the caveat that it would be a one-time deal. After tearing through the bag in two days he had the cojones to get upset with me for not continuing to oblige him. See, coffee is one of the few luxuries we have in prison and always in short supply and high demand. Giving up a shot of coffee (a fifty-cent prison value) is something you may do to help a friend in a bind, but not a regular occurrence. Over time, he’s burned all his bridges and credibility. Today, he is generally disliked and can be found storming around the deck looking for unsuspecting inmates to prey on.
Don’t get me wrong, inmates–for all of our faults–can be some of the most generous people you will ever meet, but it must be on our terms. We don’t like beggars. On the flip side, we do appreciate someone who is willing to hustle or at least try to hustle up some money. Take Rock n’ Roll, a cool cat with an Afro and big Harry Carey glasses, he worked as a deck porter (aka janitor) on first shift. Porters are the lowest paid workers in prison–$5/month. He also had a side-hustle washing inmate’s laundry. If you wanted to avoid waiting around the laundry nook, which is notorious for rats, you could set up a contract with him for about $3-$5 a month.
(A quick note about prison rats–actual four-legged vermin–not a Mafia “rat.” Prison rats are not scared of people. I once came to face-to-face with a black mini-Rottweiler with a lasso tail that looked like it could be on leash. I was stunned. I jumped up and down and yelled to scare it off. It scoffed and charged me. My fight or flight response short-circuited, and I was frozen in place, butt cheeks clenched. He blew past me and through my legs. The take-away: Don’t mess with a prison rat. But l digress.)
In the worker building, where we both lived, there were a hundred inmates and 3 washing machines and dryers. The line for laundry could be up to ten deep on a yard day. So, yeah, a lot of us are willing to pay a few bucks a month to know our laundry was being done and we wouldn’t be jumped in line. Three to five dollars is worth the peace of mind (a rare gift in prison). Plus, he’d fold it and occasionally throw in an extra roll of TP. I estimate he conservatively cleared $50 bucks a month.
Also, there’s a cellie “State Baby” amendment in the unwritten convict code. Too Tall was a young kid from Trump country whose long noodlelike legs hung off the end of the bunk when he slept. He had “one of those crimes” (a subject beyond words in our world) and you could tell it weighed on him. He didn’t have anyone looking out for him and was excluded from working most of the better paying prison jobs due to the nature of his crime. He worked as a dishwasher where he’d often scrounge the food pans for extra chicken. He didn’t have a TV, wore state shoes, and ate buck-naked noodles. I would never cook for myself or open a snack without offering him some. Most times I didn’t offer it, I simply made him a bowl and left it on the counter. His wide crooked grin was thanks enough. I also made sure he had a decent pair of shoes and set up my TV so we could both watch our favorite shows. He got me hooked on Teen Mom and I had him cheering for Premiere League soccer on Sunday mornings. We weren’t friends, per se, and we had our share of disagreements, but I never stopped looking out for him. In prison, that’s what you do. That’s the code. You look out for your cellie. Some of that is based on practicality–you don’t want them stealing from you and you don’t want to feel like a dirtbag as the salsa runs down your chin from your giant burritos while they pretend not to care. Some of it is also just out of the goodness of your heart and following the Golden Rule.
But every rule has its exception.
Shooter was also my cellie and a State Baby. He weighed a buck-twenty soaking wet, was black as night with hair like a bird’s nest and was plum nuts. When I first arrived at the cell he proceeded to warn me: “This cell is haunted.”
“How so?”
“The lights flicker on and off at all hours.”
“Couldn’t that be the count lights?”
“Do you think you’re smarter than me?” “That’s a dumb question.”
“Wait, I know you. You were on the train. You punched me in the balls. You better sleep with one eye open. I want my get-backs.”
“What the fuck?!”
This began 7 weeks of hell. By the time he was finally transferred to a mental health facility I was ready to throttle him and risk a month in the hole. I am not a violent person by nature, but a man can only take his cellie beating off to the passing nurses so many times before breaking. You can be sure as shit, he knew better than to ask me for anything. I wouldn’t give that loon a glass of water if he was dying in the desert.
Now you have the lay of the land and we can return to the question: To give or not to give?
As a born-again Christian the Bible is clear: Give. Helping others is a cornerstone of the faith, even (or especially) to those you despise. As a wannabe good guy away from my addictions and demons and on the road to redemption, I know I should be generous and kind whenever possible. But it’s hard.
Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind giving . . . as long as I like you. In fact, I’ve been accused of being overly generous to family and friends. I will give you the shirt off my back (and have done so)
. . . IF I like you. I look for opportunities to bless others, but my “blessings” are conditional.
Time alone with my thoughts has taught me a lot about myself, nothing more so than that I am a very flawed man with troublesome thinking. I’ve come to learn that the right thing to do is often the opposite of what I want to do. I live by a different version of W.W.J.D. I live by W.W.L.D.–D.T.O. (What would Leo do? Do the opposite.) Based on that, here is my tip: If you need your money, keep it. If you give expecting anything in return, don’t bother.
Otherwise, give and give often. Give to those less fortunate, those in need, regardless of how you feel about them. Yes, it may be awkward. Yes, you may be seen as weak; kindness is often mistaken for weakness in the iron jungle. But there is nothing prison has shown me more than that our actions will dictate our character–more than our thoughts and certainly more than our words. We say we want to be better men, the best versions of ourselves? Prove it.
Without saying a word, I simply went into my property box (a hard grey plastic storage container that fits under our bunk) found two honey buns and tossed one to Rambo. As I opened my own I asked, “How did you get that freaking scar on your face anyway?”
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