Mathematics has weed...

The guards let one inmate out three times a day to clean up the unit. You're probably thinking, why does the unit have to be cleaned up if we are on lock-down? After the guards deliver each meal most of the inmates just throw the trash out of their cell onto the tier floor. That's a lot of trash. The person they chose today to clean up was Squally. I like Squally. He's a few years younger than me and an active member of the Crips. The person that does the clean up, which consist of sweeping up all three tiers and bagging up all the trash also has the unofficial job of delivery boy. The delivery boy usually passes items from one cell to the next while the guard is not looking. The items are almost always cigarettes, coffee, smut mags or notes. When Squally stopped at my cell he asked me for some rolling paper for Mathematics. I handed over my last six sheets. Big Rob said, "You know that nigga Math got weed, right?" Apparently Mathematics has been dabbling in the weed trade. So I called out to Mathematics and asked him if he had "reading material" that would help me get my head right. He understood the code, but he couldn't get Squally back up to his cell to send it down. "Send up a line," is what he said. A line is nothing more than bed sheets ripped into strands and tied together to form a long ass, make shift rope. So me and Rob got together and started making a line to go fishing for the weed. The fucked up thing about the situation was that Mathematics lived on the third tier and I lived on the second. Add to the fact that his cell was still 30 to 40 feet to my left. So, up and over is what we had to do. I tied a bar of soap on the end of my line to give it some weight, stuck my arm out of the small 6x12 square in the door and let it fly. A nigga wasn't even close. After 15 minutes of fishing I was about to give up, but Rob said he wanted to give it a try. Fuck it, what do I have to lose? Rob gave it one good fling and I could hear have the tier errupt in cheers. Somebody yelled out, "Get the fuck outta here!"
I don't think Rob could have made that throw again if his freedom depended on it. The line sailed directly into Mathematics 6x12 square, (Budd said that it didn't even touch the cell door. That it flew directly in, like a swoosh shot.) Mathematics called Rob the Fishing King.

I am high as fuck!! I forgot I gave Mathematics the last of my rolling paper, but Rob said not to worry. He pulled out his bible, cut out a small section from Genesis and rolled the weed up in it. I even sold Budd a pin sized joint for $20. Shit, the hustle don't stop, nigga!


So intoxicating,
Addictive and contagious,
I have tested positive,
My newborn is responsible,
He has infected me.

© Michael C. Emanuel