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I had no right to go back and reclaim him when I got out.
But, somehow, once the idea got planted thanks to Bobby, there was no stopping it from starting to sprout and grow.3 years"I wish my hustle was half as good as yours," Bobby said, shaking his head over my shoulder as I counted the cash that Big Tony had handed me for the huge canvas I had just painted for him. It was a massively detailed piece of him, his wife, their kids, and their grandkids that I had needed to put together from a dozen photographs he had handed to me and, well, my pure imagination since there wasn't a single picture of more than two of them together and it needed to look like it was made from a real family photo session.
It had taken me three weeks to finish it, just under the line for him to be able to get it to his wife in time for their fortieth wedding anniversary.
How he was going to get it out to her, what palms he would need to grease to get that kind of shit done, yeah that was none of my business, but he apparently had it all worked out.
The piece had set him back six-hundred, a number he hadn't even raised a brow at. You had to love the wise guys. They always had cash to throw around.
"You need a hustle that won't add any more time to your fucking sentence, Bobby."
A hustle was a prison term for some kind of job that you did that the prison didn't know about - or pretended not to know about - that made you some extra cash to spend at commissary or use to barter for other shit within the prison.
My hustle was portraits or artwork. One guy had me do an album cover for him, even though he had another eight years left on his bid.
Bobby's hustle was selling pot.
How he got pot into the facility, quite frankly, I didn't want to know. All I did know was that he had almost been caught dealing it three times, and was looking at another couple of years if he did.
"Easy for you to say. Not all of us are talented, man."
"It took work," I told him truthfully, knowing the shit I had been putting out when I first arrived paled in comparison to what I could do now. "And there are plenty of guys in here with a clean hustle. Fucking Rick proofreads letters to families, lawyers, and non-profits, so the guys don't sound like idiots."
"Barely finished eleventh grade here, boss," Bobby reminded me, shaking his head as he dropped down across from me at one of the chess tables.
"Poet writes poems for anniversaries and birthdays. Marty cleans cells for commissary money. Andy fixes all the busted electronics. Thomas fixes shoes and clothes. Fucking Al makes candy in his cell. Plenty of hustles if you're actually willing to do a little work."
That was perhaps a little bit pointed.
See, Bobby was getting out in six months. He got time shaved off for good behavior since no one ever caught him handing out the pot. And I had a sick feeling that the bastard would be right back in again in less than a year if someone didn't try to push him toward a life that didn't involve ending up on the wrong side of the law.
"That's your privilege talking, man."
I snorted at that, shaking my head.
Privilege.
I grew up in a crime family. I was raised in a town that was nothing but criminal enterprises. Financial security didn't come until I was in my teens. Until then, we had to scrimp and save and barely get by just like anyone else. I didn't go to college; it wasn't even an option.
Both of our stories were similar.
We had good families in somewhat shady areas. We were both male, white, around the same age, and had the same chances in life.
The fact that he continued to choose easy money whereas I planned on going straight, well, that wasn't privilege. That was a choice. A bad one. But a choice.
It wasn't like when he got out, he was going to have no place to go, no one to help him get back on his feet. He didn't have to go live in a slum where the only money to be made was in illegal jobs.
That was the reality for more than half of the prison population. But it wasn't for Bobby.
He was just fucking lazy.
"You got the same chance as me of getting out and keeping your nose clean."
"Yeah, sure. You ain't never been in here before and gone back out there. When you do, then you can talk to me about readjusting. You don't know shit about it."
Bobby blew hot too easily.
