By Joshua Ryan
Chapter 18: The Best Place to Get Boeuf Bourguignon
Did you ever stand around naked? Just stand around? You shift from one foot to another. You cover your nuts. Then you uncover them, just for the hell of it. Because you’re bored. Bored and anxious. You look around at the uniform stacks of uniforms. You smell the ink as Dev rubs it over a stencil and into your clothes, turning anonymous pieces of cloth into YOUR shirt, the shirt of Tommy, slap number 21338. First the front of the shirt, left pec; then the back of the shirt, between the shoulder blades. Then the shorts, right thigh, left butt. Then the underwear, right thigh, left butt. Your boots too–21338, left side of your left boot, right side of your right boot. And the cap. There was room for your number on the back of your cap. Dev was a perfectionist, so it took more than 20 minutes.
“Yeah,” he was saying, holding up a shirt to inspect his work, “like we say, they be seein you comin an goin! Same with you shorts. They watchin you dick, then they watchin you ass. They wanta SEE whose ass it is. You jus’ off thee slap farm, so you doan know. So I’m tellin. The freemen LOVE to look at us. Not kiddin! Even if you are like . . . older.” Meaning me. “These women jus love to flirt with you. These men too! Course you best not try any follow up. Least so somebody find out. Somebody in Crew 7.”
