Cool Hand Luke

Read Cool Hand Luke Online

Authors: Donn Pearce

BOOK: Cool Hand Luke
7.61Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
Table of Contents
 
 
 
1
EVERY MORNING WE COUNT OFF THROUGH the gate in single file, our voices echoing out into the darkness and into the glare of the spotlights on the corners of the fence. Once again the squads are reformed and counted as we stand at a loose and sleepy attention, greeted by a new day of trucks, guns, the hounds barking from the dog pens. At the signal we load up into the cage truck, scrambling in quickly for if we are slow the last man is certain to be kicked in the ass by the Walking Boss. It is
still dark and misty, the dawn barely begun. The dawn is gray; as gray as this iron world in which we live.
After all the trucks are started the whole convoy begins to pull out, bouncing and clanging over the rutted clay road that leads through the orange grove that surrounds our camp. And as we are jarred and shaken through the darkness amid the squeaking of metal and the roaring of motors, the fruit on the orange trees goes speed- ing by like the globes of distant planets dangling in outer space.
The Bull Gang is always put in the cage truck. We can look between the bars of the gate and watch the headlights of the trucks behind us as they illuminate the leaves and the fruit and dazzle our sleepy eyes. And we can see the men of the other squads huddled together in heaps beneath pieces of old canvas, trying to break the force of the chill morning wind. All the other squads are put in the back of open dump trucks behind each of which is towed a small guard trailer with an eighteen-foot tongue in which the Free Men sit to prevent anyone from jumping off. Sitting behind the windshields of their black and yellow, twowheeled chariots, the Free Men shiver in jackets and coats, their hands in their pockets, their shotguns held in the crooks of their arms and aimed carelessly upwards at the stars.
And then the miracle. Without even pulling a trigger a star is being shot out of the sky. Through the bars we watch it burning, questioning its similarities with this
caged world on wheels as the round pale orbs of our faces are softly illuminated by our own cigarettes.
We doze. The dream is still clinging to us with a heavy glow. Feet are shifted. Chains rattle. Work shoes scrape on the metal floor which is bare and shiny from years of being polished by leather and fine gray Florida sand. In order to relieve a cramp, someone shifts his shoulder, the movement felt all the way down the line, transmitted through a series of tightly packed arms and shoulders wrapped in the coarse gray cloth of shirts and jackets bleached and faded by the years. But as we sit here squeezed together, we are also huddling for warmth, for some sort of reassurance and understanding which we know we can only hope to get from one of our own kind.
Cigarettes are silently rolled and smoked. We cross and recross our legs, casually and debonair, the white vertical stripes on the outside of our pant legs barely visible in the gloom, dimmed by the filth and the encrusted salt of the sweat of yesterday's labor.
When the convoy reaches the paved road the trucks begin to separate, going in opposite directions and turning off again at other junctions as each squad is taken to the different work assignments scattered all over the county. Some of us in the Bull Gang peer out between the bars, noting the direction in which we are headed and trying to guess our job for the day. Eventually, after a half hour or so, the cage truck pulls over to the side of the road as we fumble with our makings to roll up and light one last
smoke. The guards dismount from the tool truck behind us and move off to their positions. When they are ready, the Walking Boss unlocks the gate and counts us as we get out and go over to the tool truck where Rabbit the Water Boy hands down the shovels, the bush axes or the yo-yos. One by one we clamber down into the ditch, stiff and clumsy at first but gradually loosening up as we go, the sun just rising over the horizon as we begin another day.
Slowly the mists begin to rise after the chill and the dampness are driven away by the sun. Later it begins to get hot and a man will pause, yelling out the prescribed formula to all the guards:
Takin‘ it off here,
Boss!
From all around us comes the permissive echo.
Yeah.
All right.
Go on, take it off.
The man drops his tool and strips off his shirt and jacket, leaving them on the edge of the road where Rabbit will pick them up and put them away in the cage truck. His tanned skin shining in its sweat, the man resumes his work, the dull monotony of the day dragging on as he digs and chops and carries.
The hours pass. But we are strictly forbidden to know the time, deliberately kept in constant suspense. There is always that haunting question. How much longer is it until Smoking Period? Until Bean Time? And how much closer are we to that Golden Day—the day of parole
or release or, to some of us, the right moment for an escape?
But in spite of everything we have learned how to work with automatic unconcern, quite unaware of our own fatigue, of the fierceness of the sun, of the mosquitoes and flies. For endless hours we whisper to each other, keeping an eye open for the Walking Boss who is strolling up and down the road idly swinging his stick. He knows perfectly well that we are talking but is usually willing to tolerate our little sins if we keep them within certain limits. Our work must never falter, our lips must never move and we must dummy up whenever he approaches, slipping back to the diaphanous silence of our dream.
During Smoking Period we huddle together on the slope of the ditch, telling each other all over again the long details of our former lives. And those lives, long since dead, sound like a distant melody played on a muted saxophone. We relate the history of our adventures, our sentimental agonies. We talk about the girls we laid, the whiskey we drank, the money we stole. And we tell the story of how we almost got away with it all.
Chief will tell another of his legendary lies. Ears will recite the saga of his boyhood when his father put him in a reform school after his mother died. But only his closest friends will ever hear about his young, attractive stepmother. And only once or twice has he ever described the exact details of that drunken night when he staggered home with a pistol and shot his father dead.
Once again Koko will describe how he got three years for burglarizing $115,000 worth of jewels from a walled mansion in Palm Beach. But he is still breathless as he tells how he escaped from a camp near Lake Okeechobee and ended up with four more years for stealing a pair of overalls from a farmhouse. And how he got another five years for swiping a Model T Ford in which to make a getaway.
And Dynamite is still having that same old nightmare. Living on Death Row, the cellmate of his dreams keeps asking him with maddening repetition,
What time is it? We go down at ten o‘clock.
As for myself, what can I say? I too have committed my crime, the one which demonstrated my hostility towards this great, big wonderful world of ours; the one which has put me in debt to Society and which I am gradually paying off, on the installment plan. Lured by irresistible temptations and maddened by a chronic anger which had long since lost its original meaning, I too committed a felony. Does it really matter that mine happens to be larceny? As for my sentence, I have all the Time I need.
And now my own face can be found among those paled by the shadowed height of the guard. I too am down there digging in the ditch while he stands with the shotgun jutting over his shoulder, hammered into the blue with a precise slant of malediction.
So this is the Chain Gang. Among ourselves it is most often referred to as The Hard Road, as a noun and as a proper name, capitalized and sacred. In the evening you
can see us driving down the highway in a long caravan of black and yellow trucks heading back to Camp. And as we go by we get down on our knees in order to get a better view, our wicked, dirty faces peering through the bars to eyeball at your Free World.
Every night the trucks bounce over the clay road through the groves, pulling up on the asphalt apron, the guards dismounting and spreading to all sides. We wait. At the signal from the Walking Boss everyone clambers out and lines up along the sidewalk in front of the gate, standing with his back turned and his arms raised. Squad by squad we are shaken down, each man standing with his pockets turned inside out. His spoon, comb, tobacco can and change are all held in his cap which is always removed in deference to the Captain who is sitting in a rocking chair on the porch of his Office. After we are patted, rubbed and felt, the final tap on the shoulder tells us we may lower our arms.
Deep inside the Building we can hear the Wicker Man tapping and banging away to test the floors and the walls and dragging his broom handle across the chain link wire mesh of the windows. And that staccato melody of the evening echoes far over the groves like drunken jackhammers repairing the sky.
Another signal. The gate is swung open and we march through in single file, each man turning his head to speak over his shoulder, counting off as clearly as possible so the next man won't misunderstand. The Yard Man stands right beside the gate and a swift kick is the cost of a
mistake. And as we count our voices are different just as we are different. There are growls, yells, threats, questions, statements, murmurs—
ONE
Two three/FOUR! (five) Six?
Once inside the gate we charge up the steps and into the Building, our songs and shouts overlapping and entangled as we run in to open lockers, to wait in line in front of the one faucet in the Building to rinse the mud off our faces, to take a quick piss in little semicircles huddled together shoulder to shoulder around the johns; two, three and even four to the bowl.
Then we rush out again, lining up for supper at the Messhall door. But the Silent System prevails. Jammed in tight on one of the benches I sit in meditation, feeling the shoulders and arms of the men on either side of me as I eat my meal of potato stew and beans, corn bread and collards. The only sounds are the scraping of shoes on the concrete floor, the clanking of tablespoons on metal plates. After I finish I go outside and rinse my spoon under the faucet in the yard and then I put it back in my hip pocket.
At the porch of the Building I stoop and remove my shoes, empty the contents of my pockets into my cap and get in the line which is wending its way past Carr, the convict Floorwalker. When my turn comes I hand my shoes to Carr who examines them for contraband and then throws them through the door. I turn my back and raise my arms as he pokes through the things in my cap, gives me a fast frisk and growls in my ear. Fourteen. I go through the door, pick up my shoes and repeat the number
to the Wicker Man. He grumbles back at me and makes a mark. Fourteen.
When everyone is safely tucked inside, the double doors are closed and barred. Just as the last bolt is shot home, the sun drops below the horizon.
And we always spend our evenings at home. Ours is a world without carpets or curtains, without chairs, sinks or privacy. Yet we shave every day and brush our teeth and somehow manage to carry on lives which, although but a pale imitation of yours, still retain some of its marvels. We read the funnies and know the football scores. In subdued murmurs we gossip and argue and recite. Four of us have been permitted to own radios that whisper the latest tunes. The four johns are always busy. There are loafers, comedians, gamblers, craftsmen and students. And those who still have someone waiting for them, are writing letters home.

Other books

Torrent by David Meyer
Until the Debt Is Paid by Alexander Hartung
Jane Steele by Lyndsay Faye
Fortress by Andy McNab
Drained by E.H. Reinhard
Her Stolen Son by Rita Herron
Grave Robber for Hire by Cassandra L. Shaw
Destiny Of The Mountain Man by William W. Johnstone