Cool Hand Luke (10 page)

They left the Messhall, waddling with short, stifflegged steps, their bellies swollen painfully. Then Curly stopped and twisted his big torso on his hips, letting go
with a truly magnificent fart. Luke grinned, raised his right leg and answered the call, trumpeting far over the distant groves dim with the shadows of dusk.

It was a draw.

But to have eaten Curly to a draw was such an outstanding accomplishment that Luke's fame was immediately established. Shortly afterwards, Curly was made a trustee. No longer working under the gun, his appetite fell off considerably and although he had retired undefeated, Luke became the new Intestinal Champion.

And then one night while playing poker he managed to bluff his way into stealing a pot of a dollar and sixty-five cents. Everyone else had thrown in his hand except Bullshit Bill who was holding a pair of aces. But when Luke raised the last bet a dollar he refused to call the raise. After dragging in the nickles, dimes and quarters, Luke showed his hand to Bullshit Bill. He had a pair of nothing. Smiling, he murmured softly.

Just remember, man. Wherever you go and whatever you do. Always play a real cool hand.

And from that night on he always answered to the name of Cool Hand Luke.

MANY MONTHS PASSED BY. SOME OF THE Oldcocks went home. Some more Newcocks drove up. One day the Bull Gang was lying in the shade, resting and smoking after our beans. Somehow the conversation got around to the bottomless chasm of Luke's stomach. I could hear Dragline nearby talking to Society Red, a young college man from Boston who had been sent up from Miami Beach for hanging five thousand dollars worth of paper in a half-dozen night clubs, restaurants and hotels after his checking account had gone dry.

Dragline was enjoying himself, bragging and exaggerating with abandon, as though Luke's gastronomical exploits, by virtue of being his buddy's, were somehow part of his own achievements.

Eat? Haw! You ain't never seen nobody really eat. One Sunday Luke and Curly chipped in to buy a gallon of ice cream. But the Laundry Boy and the Cap'n got hung up in town and didn't git back until right after dinner. And we had somethin‘ special that day, meat of some kind or other. They couldn't wait for the ice cream. So they went in and had three helpin's each. Stuffed themselves like billy goats. And then when the ice cream finally did show up they just sat there on the front porch like a couple of kids. They had eight pint containers between 'em and they ate up every gawd damn drop.

You don't say, Dragline? said Society Red.

Eat? One night ah saw him eat ten Hershey bars and drink seven Pepsi Colas in no more than fifteen minutes time.

Ten Hersheys and seven Pepsis? In fifteen minutes? Now wait a minute. Don't think I'm that much of a Newcock. I'm just an Oldcock in a new place that's all.

You don't believe it?

Dragline sat up and slapped his hand on his chest with a resounding thud.

Ah've seen it wif mah own eyes! These two right here.

Oh, come on Clarence.

Clarence? Clarence? What the hell do you mean—
Clarence
? You callin‘ me a gawd damn liar? Ah'm tellin' yuh. That there boy of mine can
eat.
He could eat a threefoot two-by-four—raw. He could chomp up and swallow a hatful of rusty nails—broken bottles—anything. Eff'n you'd so kindly oblige as to let me cut yore gawd damn haid off, why, he'd eat
that.

Luke lay there a few feet away, paying no attention to the commotion. Serenely he smoked his butt and stared up at the clouds. And then quietly he spoke with matter-of-fact simplicity.

Five dollars says I can eat fifty hard-boiled eggs.

Fifty
eggs? said Society Red, sitting up with interest.

Dragline did a double take, blinked his eyes, stared at Cool Hand Luke with a stricken expression, gulped, shook his head and then bravely nodded, jabbing his finger at Society Red for emphasis.

You're gawd damn right he kin. Eff'n he says he kin do it, it's done. And ah got five dollars more says he kin.

Society sat up straight, rearranged his cap and squinted thoughtfully.

Well, I have news for both you Southern gentlemen. I'll just take that bet.

A few minutes later Boss Godfrey interrupted the proceedings by ordering everybody back to work. Quickly Dragline sidled over to Luke, shoveling away with fury.

Damn, Luke! What's the matter with you? We done bet ten whole god damn dollars that you can eat—
oh, Christ Almighty! Ah hates to even think about it. That you can
eat—fifty
eggs. Fifty eggs, boy. Ah backed you up. Yeah. But don't ask me why. Habit, ah reckon. You're mah buddy. But gawd damn—damn it Luke. What's the matter with you?

Don't worry Dragline. We got a dead-lock on that mullet. We just can't lose.

We can't? You sure the Bear ain't caught yuh now?

Positive.

Well. Ah don't know. Ah hates to let it be said ah didn't back up a buddy. But—Luke.
Fifty
eggs! Think o‘ that, man. Think!

Ah
am
thinkin‘ Dragline. Ah'm thinkin' this is a golden chance for us to pick up some easy money. And for me to get some extra Free World groceries besides. All we gotta do is play it real cool.

Cool? You call that cool? Makin‘ a wild, rambunctious bet like that? Oh, Lawd. What did ah do? Ah done stole and tole lies. Ah have loved mah neighbor and his wife. But what—
what
did ah evah do to deserve a lunatic like this to come here into mah happy home and beat me outta mah hard-earned bread?

But we were convinced that it was an opportunity for us to pick up some easy money. The word wafted up and down the ditch that very afternoon. And for a week afterwards we talked of nothing else. The terms were arranged, the details ironed out, the regulations negotiated. One hour was decided as the time limit. The eggs were to be boiled for five minutes, to be of medium size and to be
purchased by the losing party. A technical point was raised as to whether the wager stipulated that Luke
eat
the eggs or
retain
the eggs. After a long, legal battle it was decided that Luke would be permitted to leave the table and to use the toilet at any time. Digestion and defecation could only be taken as incontrovertible proof that the eggs had been
eaten.
But if he ever vomited, he would automatically lose by default.

The whole camp buzzed with excitement over the possibilities. Being the leading authority on such matters, Curly was consulted immediately as to his opinion of Luke's chances. But Curly was unimpressed. His only comment was a laconic drawl,

What's the poor guy gonna drink? Boiled eggs can get mighty dry after the first dozen or two.

After two weeks of preparations, a definite Sunday was set for the contest. On Sundays one of the trustees is always taken into the next town with a Store Order list to make purchases of odds and ends for the men in the Camp—ice cream, books, pipe tobacco, needle and thread. This time he would also have an order for four and a half-dozen eggs.

In the meantime Dragline had exerted himself for a whole weekend with his propaganda efforts, walking up and down the Building in his bare feet and his clean, wrinkled pants just issued for the week. Boldly he swaggered, pounding on his naked chest with his fist.

Ah knows he kin do it. He's mah workin‘ buddy. Ah got faith in that there boy o' mine. Ah'm the one what
taught him all he knows. And ah got fifty fuckin‘ green lookin' dollahs out yonder in the Cap‘n's Office what says he kin do it. Ah'll bet any swingin' dick anything he wants to bet.

But Society Red's sophisticated arguments were just as persuasive. His was the application of logic, reason, realistic anatomy. And a powerful influence that prodded us on was the fact that even Koko seemed to be on Society's side.

We didn't know it then but Koko was secretly acting as a shill. He made phony bets with Dragline and argued that fifty eggs would make about three quarts and weigh at least six pounds. In full voice he claimed that the eggs would swell up in Luke's belly and kill him. Or Luke himself would swell up. He would drown, choke, give up or faint. Dragline was adamant, challenging and daring us all.

And in the sheer ferocity of that challenge we cowered. We suspected that we were being conned somehow. Yet we couldn't bring ourselves to believe in the impossible. So in the end we were bullied and cajoled into putting our money where our mouth was.

For the rest of the week Luke went into training. Out on the road Dragline waited on him personally, heaping up his plate with beans and corn bread and watching him like a mother hawk.

Eat them beans, bastard. Drink some more water too. And stay away from them candy bars tonight. We ain't got but three more days. We gotta git that double-gut
o‘ yours stretched and strained. We gotta git you in fightin' shape. Like a barrage balloon.

Why, you toothless bastard. If I had a belly like yours we wouldn't have nothin‘ to worry about.

Like mine? Hell, ah don't eat much.

Maybe not. But just look at the size of that gut.

Well, hell. Don't you know how come that to be? That's a sign ah got me an affectionate nature.

Affectionate? Like an elephant you mean?

Maybe. Maybe so. Why not? Ah read in a book once that when an elephant's makin‘ love it takes him two days and two nights to git his gun off. But when he does make it—man, look out.

That's you, huh?

Sho! Ah'm an affectionate son of a bitch. Ah jes cain't help mahself.

The week came to an end. Saturday we began our usual weekend activities. But instead of loafing around and playing poker, Cool Hand Luke and Dragline spent the morning out on the lawn sparring with the old, worn-out boxing gloves. At noon Luke ate very little. He did some calisthenics in the afternoon and walked up and down the Building, stopping every few minutes to cup his hands under the faucet for a drink.

Then the impossible happened. Luke didn't eat any supper. And later, after we checked in for the night, Luke had Carr ask the Wicker Man for a couple of Brown Bombers and a cup of Epsom Salts.

Society Red began to protest. This was the same as
doping a race horse with a needle. But nothing had been mentioned in the contest rules about taking a physic. Nobody liked the idea but we had to admit that it was legal. So all evening and the next morning we glumly watched as Cool Hand made trip after trip to the john.

It was Sunday. The big day. As we expected, Luke didn't have any breakfast. Instead he drank water and did push-ups and boxed a couple of rounds with Dragline. It was nearly noon when the Trustee and the Yard Man got back from town with the Store Order.

We didn't waste any time. We knew that Cool Hand was getting hungrier and hungrier. About six of us formed an official cooking committee and ran around to the back of the Building where there is a huge cast-iron pot raised up on bricks which is used by the Laundry Boy to boil out our clothes. The pot was ready. We had already filled it halfway with the hose and built a fire under it out of fat pine kindling. By the time the Store Order arrived it was just beginning to boil.

Carefully we took all the eggs out of the cardboard cartons and put them in a big paper bag. Cautiously, with tongues sticking out and with bated breath, we lifted up the bag and slowly lowered the whole thing into the pot, the paper dissolving almost instantly and the eggs settling gently to the bottom. Babalugats went over to the fence and asked Boss Shorty who was on the platform to time them for us. Then he came back to the rest of us standing and squatting around the pot, studiously watching it boil.

When Boss Shorty yelled out that they were ready
we used the coffee can that the Laundry Boy measures soap with, bailing out the water and putting out the fire. When we could reach the eggs we used our spoons and sticks of wood clamped together like chopsticks, fishing them out and laying them on the ground to cool off.

We had no more bags so we brought the eggs inside the Building carried in our caps, five or six of us in a single file gingerly coming in with our caps in our hands as though they were the nests of exotic birds. Triumphantly we lay our fragile burdens on the poker table, counted them, put the four extras away and then counted them again.

The poker table was cleared. Everyone was ordered to stand back. Only Luke and his coaches and trainers were allowed to sit on the bench. Then the surprise. Koko stepped forward and admitted that he had worked to con us into betting against Luke. So he was allowed to take his place with Curly and Dragline who were sitting with owlish seriousness at the table. There was some more haggling. Luke's handlers declared their intention to peel the eggs for him. We argued. Society Red virtually screamed. But finally even he had to admit that the bet was only to eat the eggs in one hour. However, we won a small concession, Cool Hand's team agreeing not to begin peeling the eggs until the official time was started.

So everything was set.

Boss Shorty had just been relieved by another guard who took his shotgun and pistol. Then he came inside the Building with Boss Higgins to see what was going
on. Everyone gathered round. Dice and poker, boxing, reading, howling, wallet manufacturing, grab-ass, haircuts, sleeping, listening to radios, letter writing, making jewel boxes out of hundreds of wooden matches all glued together and sandpapered—all the normal activities of the weekend were suspended. Everyone was silent. We waited. Outside we could hear the clump of Luke's feet and his deep breathing as he did side-straddle hops. Then he stopped.

We sat and we stood and we waited. Luke came in, sweating from his exercise. Then he went to his bunk and got a towel, undressed and came back to the shower, walking on the balls of his feet. Seemingly unaware of our hushed presence, he soaped and rinsed himself methodically with graceful and deliberate drama. We watched every move. We noticed how big he had grown since his arrival, how dark his skin had become. We looked at his scars. We looked at his belly, still heaving from his exercise and noticeably concave.