How Not To Pick Friends In Prison
When I was first came down, I flailed around and stuck out. I was white, thin, and ink free. I wanted to belong so I didn’t exercise too much judgment in whom I hung around.
The first dude to approach me asked if I wanted to play spades. I jumped at the chance. I wanted friends. He was stabbed two weeks later for an unpaid dope debt to the Bloods.
Soon after, a guy named Steve moved into the unit. He was bald, covered in tattoos, and in the joint for a dozen years. He ran with the GD’s, who normally don’t let whites in their gang, so I figured he had some street cred.
He became block rep, involved himself in everyone’s business, and worked every low-level hustle: suckers, fudge, mocha shots, chocolates. He pursued only one vice–gambling.
Afterwards, I’d sell him phone calls and he’d try to pay me with his homemade candies. That way, he’d always come out on top. Every transaction was a struggle.
