Public Service Announcement: Be Nice to Gang Enforcers
Chapter 4: Cheeseburger
This is Chapter 4 of my series Club 44, my true story of having the world’s craziest prison job.
Prologue | Chapter 1: Club 44 | Chapter 2: Mr. President | Chapter 3: Big Tuna | Chapter 4: Cheeseburger | Chapter 5: Blowing Off Your Arm
Most of the time, life as a federal inmate at Vandenberg AFB was comfortingly routine. I drove a mower on Mow Team 2, and we had a one-week rotating schedule of buildings and grass areas to hit. That was a pretty safe position for me, because there was some responsibility associated with driving a piece of expensive equipment, and I was pulled for special work less often than other guys.
Interdepartmental favors are an essential part of the base economy. So on occasion, some of us would be sent to do some work for someone else on base, someone who wasn’t part of the contract with the prison. Most of the time, projects like these were cool for us; the guys were always nice, often gave us a real lunch, treated us like people in the world. We gave them our best work, and in return, they were appreciative of our help and would thank us appropriately— you know, like normal humans. Except for one guy. Except for Cheeseburger.
Cheeseburger was an asshole. He was a great, fat, enormously bearded civil servant who was his own one-man department. His was the stereotypical government job, in that he had no apparent responsibilities and was accountable for nothing. He thought he was king of the world, and considered it his just due that he should also have his own slaves whenever he wanted them. So he was in the habit of driving up to 44, always without asking Sammy first, and saying he needed a couple guys. Sammy generally did his best to oblige, sometimes with a gentle reminder that we had a schedule to stick to. (I was probably told Cheeseburger’s actual name, but we never used it except to his face — the nickname celebrating his shape and physical conditioning just fit too well.)
Whatever work Cheeseburger assigned you was made up for the sole purpose of giving him the sense that he was a slave master. I was unlucky enough to have the Cheeseburger experience, but only once. My friend Trevor and I were pulled, and told we had a day of weeding ahead of us.
As Cheeseburger drove us to the job site in his big blue Ford Super Duty diesel, he set a pair of binoculars on the seat and warned us that he’d be watching the entire day from his office window, and he didn’t expect to ever see us taking a break.
The job was to hand weed about two acres of old parking lot. Cheeseburger had a shed with power tools including string trimmers, but did not allow us to use any tools. He made sure the nice tools were set out where we could see them, though. Neither Trevor nor I were there to make waves; we were there to do as we were told, be inoffensive, and get the hell out as quickly and conveniently as possible. So we bowed down to Cheeseburger and hand weeded in the sun with no tools, gloves, or sun protection. I wanted to beat the fat out through his asshole, but this was not the time. Consequently, it was a pretty horrible two days.
Cheeseburger was, hands down, the worst part about working at Vandenberg.
Over time, Cheeseburger enjoyed the ego boost of having slaves more and more. He liked fucking with these subservient little twerps by showing them his big binoculars. He loved finally having a little bit of power and influence over others’ lives, to the point that one of our guys he loved to pick on the most was starting to get suicidal. Cheeseburger got to coming around 44 a little too often. In fact, he came around exactly once too often.
Sammy had decided something needed to be done. But if he was going to try anything, he’d have to juggle multiple diplomatic considerations. He couldn’t go up; strictly speaking he was not supposed to be loaning us out to anyone in the first place. He couldn’t tell Cheeseburger to fuck off, because he had a give and take relationship with all the Cheeseburgers on the base — Sammy had to keep that economy in balance. Somehow, Sammy had to get Cheeseburger to want to fuck off on his own.
The opportunity soon came. One cold, cloudy morning at 44 while we were gearing up and making coffee, Cheeseburger’s dreaded blue Super Duty came crunching down the gravel road. That sent us all scurrying like cockroaches. We all found things to do way the hell down at the far end of the yard. Cheeseburger came trudging in, swaying his considerable, red-suspendered bulk side to side, but didn’t look at us, in accordance with his being too important to notice his inferiors. Sammy was talking with someone in his office, but as was his habit, Cheeseburger barged on in and helped himself to a seat. Sammy got up and closed the door.
Great, we all thought. Now we’re fucked. He’s planning something special for us.
Soon the door opened and Cheeseburger came out, again careful not to deign to look our way. We heard his big diesel fire up. Sammy stood rubbing his chin and thinking. He knew what was on our minds, so he looked at us and said:
“He’s got a two-week project. He needs three guys.”
We were silent. We all looked down or looked busy. Every one of us was expecting him to call our name. Instead, Sammy said something glorious:
“I’m calling Big Tuna.” And he went back into his office and closed the door again.
Whatever was in store, we could only guess.
The next morning as we all stood there jumping around trying to stay warm waiting for the bus, the plot thickened. Three new guys (new to me) joined us, freshly suited up in red. Unlike most new recruits who looked terrified, these guys were laughing about it — they were Club 44 veterans from before my time. All three were very hard Los Angeles gang members, a black guy and two Sureños, guys who had earned more solid self-confidence and poise than anyone you’ll ever meet. Not the guys I would have been likely to hang out with under other circumstances, but here we all wore red, and they were as friendly and sociable with us as anyone. Weird. Kind of cool, but weird.
Sammy was on the bus himself, which was unusual. He had the three tough guys sit up front with him, and explained their assignment. We didn’t know what was going to happen, but the signs were good.
Half an hour later, Cheeseburger was darkening our doorway in an energetic conversation with Sammy. My crew and I were dead quiet, as far away as we could get and still overhear — we were mixing up some of our special home-made coffee cocoa-creamer and trying to do it quietly. Evidently, Cheeseburger was not pleased with the crew Sammy had provided. Sammy was calmly advising him those were the guys he had available, as the rest of us were trained on certain equipment needed for another job today. It was bullshit, but Cheeseburger had little choice.
The three tough guys followed him out to his truck, talking up a storm, asking Cheeseburger questions, replying to his rebuffs with calls for mutual respect, and already making him visibly uncomfortable within the first minute. It was an encouraging start.
I missed their lunchtime dropoff, but was there when Cheeseburger came back to pick them up for the afternoon shift. He’d obviously prepped himself and came charging in with a lot of bluster — rude demands that they get off their asses — his best attempt at strongman dictatorship. It was received with good-natured comebacks, more calls for respect, and detailed, probing questions on why he would come in with that posturing, what was it that made him use that tone, and so forth. The strongman facade crumbled almost immediately and became just a stoneface. Cheeseburger had no answers so he said nothing, visibly squirming in the face of very reasonable and well-calculated questions about his attitude and what his problem was.
The second day started much as the third did, and I spent the morning contentedly mowing a softball field, glad that someone other than me was keeping Cheeseburger busy. While eating our lunch of cold hot dogs back at 44, we heard the big blue Super Duty pulling up. We heard the doors open and close, and then the diesel revving as Cheeseburger peeled out and got the hell out of there. Our three guys came strolling in, and announced that the special assignment had been completed. A cheer was raised.
The special assignment had not lasted two weeks. It had lasted barely a day and a half.
As they sat down I handed them some trays and asked one of them “Chaka, what happened? How’d you guys get back so soon?”
“We broke Chee’burger down. Next crew gon’ have a easier time.”
Well, there was no next crew. We never saw Cheeseburger again. In his office, Sammy grinned and toasted himself with his coffee.
The three tough guys had done their job, and as their unique services were no longer needed, they did not join us on the bus the next day. I never found out whatever the hell it was that sent Cheeseburger scurrying away with his tail between his legs. I’m probably better off not knowing.
Prologue | Chapter 1: Club 44 | Chapter 2: Mr. President | Chapter 3: Big Tuna | Chapter 4: Cheeseburger | Chapter 5: Blowing Off Your Arm | More chapters soon…
