MyTimeToBlog
At one point I was one of the biggest store box men on Nottoway Correction Center. This hustle provided me with more money than I ever had in my life. It all came from my penitentiary brother Red handing over one hundred dollars in commissary, tobacco, and coffee. He entered my cell and sat me down, establishing the guidelines to store boxing:
1) One item for two back. Two for three, and three for five back.
2) Have a timeline for when they'll pay you back.
3) If they have any problems with paying you, come in advance and let you know.
4) Tell them before they depart from the cell this: If you treat me with respect, I'll do the same. If you come at me with something different, I'll do the same.
One year later my cell was the spot to go to for food and tobacco. It became so hectic, that on payday, I couldn't make it to my bunk. Laundry bags of food congested the floor. I was penitentiary rich!
As this hustle grew, so did my inmate account. In that year, I stopped going to commissary. I even was able to send money home to my family. A store box hustle established me in ways that I didn't think possible. I ceased going to the chow hall to eat because I had a personal cook on standby. My clothes were washed and folded by the laundry guy. Plus, I had all my clothes ironed. All this came from hustling snacks. Crazy.
One day, I'm in my cell, chowing down on a Bowl Pizza, this guy knocked on my door. I asked him to come in, thinking he wanted to store box a pack of cigarettes, but that wasn't it. You see, he was hungry, so much so, that he asked me to store box him a single Ramen noodle. He said he didn't know when he could pay me back.
I'll be real with you: I was on my high horse, never noticing what was transpiring around me. I'm situated. I'm good. I have the means to do what I want. This guy couldn't, and he humbled himself enough to come to a stranger's cell, begging for a soup (what we call a Ramen noodle). When I took all that in, I did what I felt was right: give.
That day I opened my store box up and fed him. I gave him enough food to feed him for a week. I also assured him that he didn't need to pay me back either. He smiled and thanked me. His smile made my day.
I remembered my days of being down and out. This occurred at Red Onion State Prison, where I only had $ 100.00 to my name. An entire year with that as my budget. No job, even though I tried. My family couldn't send me any money, because they had bills to pay. This was 2003, and all I could do was manage $5.00s a week on commissary orders. That time in my life was miserable and I'll never forget it.
Now in life, all good things come to an end. My store box hustle perished when I was transferred back up to Wallen Ridge State Prison. My ambition did not. I made sure to learn how to protect myself financially by growing my funds monthly. In doing so, I would never be without; that year on Red Onion taught me to always keep something for a rainy day.
That's why when I finally returned to Lowland (a low-level prison), I was comfortable. I knew how to budget. I kept a job. And above all, I made sure I had a rainy-day account. Now while I did all this, I still made sure I looked out for my incarcerated brethren. It's a part of me now.
When I made it back to Nottoway Correction Center, fourteen years later, I returned with a new hustle: Cheesecakes and Taffy. These ventures provided me with stability while also allowing me to seek gainful employment. My life became what it was when I had the store box hustle: penitentiary rich.
The difference now was that I shared my blessings with those around me. A lot of these men aren't capable of doing what I'm blessed to do. They have mental health issues. Sobriety problems. Unable to survive off their state pay. The list is endless. Now with me knowing all of this, I also can do the eye test: see what's going on around me.
There is a group of men in my housing unit that only eat soups. They have one every night after their dinner from chow, which sadly, never fills you up. When I see that, I come out and hand them something to go into the soup: chili, sausage, or mackerel. You should see their smiles--I love it.
I'm able to help. That's my choice, and since it is, I find a guy each week and ask them what they want from commissary. Last week Bill wanted cupcakes. I ordered him his cupcakes, then delivered them when they arrived. He ate them, sharing that his whole day was better because of those cupcakes. I asked why. He responded, "I couldn't afford them because I only can buy soups, coffee, and pay for my phone bill to call my girlfriend. A treat like this isn't in my budget." He hugged me again.
I sat on a chair in the day room smiling. The lessons of yesteryear came flooding back. I was hungry, and unable to do anything but eat peanut butter, crackers and soup for a year. That was my survival pack. I used to stare at the large bags of commissary the men ordered, wishing I could eat what I wanted, but I didn't have the money to do so. I do okay now, but even with my hustle, my stacking, I rather go without before letting one of my incarcerated brethren go to bed on an empty stomach.
Have you ever been hungry before? If so, remember when you get back on your feet, do something for those in need. Plus when you see their smile, it'll make your day better.