Cool Hand Luke (17 page)

But Luke just smiled and closed his eyes, his fingers flying on in a tinkling blur.

Yeah, Sailor. You're right.

Why don't you take it easy a little bit. You don't have much Time to do. Hell, you'll be out of here before you know it.

Take it easy? Why, Sailor. I'm surprised at you. You know damn well I always play it real cool.

I gave up. There was no talking to Luke. He was what he was. But there were others who could see what I saw. Even Dragline grew more and more anxious out on the Road, noticeably reluctant to work with him, growing quiet and sullen, concentrating on his work. Today in the church yard, Dragline expressed those same feelings to the Bull Gang as he was telling us his version of the story:

Ah'm tellin‘ yuh. He had the devil in him. Sometimes ah think he wa'n't even human. Way he could play that fuckin‘ banjo now. Ah mean, playin' is one thing. Any old ass hole can play. But he didn't play. He didn't even have to touch the strings. Just tickled ‘em a little bit while he was thinkin' of somethin‘ else. No suh. It was the devil that did the playin'. Him and Luke must have made some kind of a deal somewhere along the line. Ah don't know what. Thar's no tellin‘. But ah knows this. Luke was mad
at God. Yeah, he was. He was just natcherly mad at him. Crazy, that's what. Just plain crazy. Got shot up too many times. Ah mean he wasn't really mean or ornery or nothin'. He was a sinner ah reckon, yeah. But not what you'd call—you know what ah mean. Mad at God? Hell, that's for Judases and Jonahs and Romans and guys like that there.

After the weekend we went back out on the Road again. And we were put into a Shit Ditch again. The morning passed as we gripped the sweaty, slippery handles of our bush axes, swearing under our breaths, fighting the horse flies and the mosquitoes, slashing away at the tangled underbrush. In the afternoon a thunder storm began to approach over the horizon, pushing a pocket of hot, humid air before it.

The storm drew closer, lightning flashing on the horizon, thunder banging and exploding. Ugly clouds ruffled towards us, the wind suddenly picking up force and blowing its hot breath over our bodies. Luke paused and looked up at the storm, smiling at it with some secret amusement. Stabbing his bush axe into the water and mud so it stood up vertically, he called out to the nearest guard—

Wipin‘ it off here, Boss!

Taking off his cap, he wiped his face with it, rubbing the sweat out of his eyes. Then he put it back on his head, pulling the bill down and over at a cocky angle. Again the thunder banged and echoed within the deep hollowness of a cloud. Again Luke glanced up at the sky
and smiled. Dragline was just ahead of him, finishing up his sector. Luke called out, loud enough for everyone to hear.

Hey Dragline! It looks like old man God's gettin‘ ready to take himself a piss!

Dragline was just getting ready to swing. Aimlessly he let the bush axe flop over to one side. Looking up at the sky, he turned his head and answered out of the corner of his mouth.

Damn, Luke! Dummy up. Are you done gone nuts? You cain't talk that a-way about the Lord.

Aw, come on, Dragline. You mean to tell me you still believe in that bearded son of a bitch up there?

Dragline's mouth fell open. He looked up and then down and then all around him. He took a few aimless swings with his bush axe, doing nothing but splash water and chop up pieces of felled vegetation.

Man—listen. Don't talk like that. Especially like now when it's lightnin‘ the way it is. You're liable to git struck down. God's liable to git real mad and strike you dead. Jes like that. Don't you know that you're bein' one of them blasphemer guys? Ain't you scared?

Luke smiled and shook his head, cut down a water oak sapling and then gripped his bush axe with both hands spread apart, the handle resting horizontally against his thighs.

Oh, my poor, baby Dragline. If there's really a God like you say then he can strike me dead right now. Right? O.K. then. Let him. Let him prove it. Right now.

Luke. Ain't you scared? Ain't you scared of dyin‘ and goin' to hell?

Dyin‘? Ha! It's livin' I'm scared of. Livin‘ this nice pretty life you say the Old Man up there can take back whenever he wants. Well, he's welcome to it. Come on God! Show your stuff, Old Timer! Make me know it! Make me know you're up there!

Grumbling, the clouds boiled into masses of black and gray billows, thunder volleying into a crescendo of noise, three distant explosions banging one after the other followed by a brilliant flash of lightning crackling over the sky from horizon to horizon. The wind picked up force. Suddenly the air became cold as the first patter of rain began.

Dragline cringed and shrank away from Luke. Desperately he lashed out at the few remaining bushes and began wading frantically through the ditch until he reached the shoulder and clambered up to the road.

Gittin‘ up here, Boss Paul! That crazy Luke says he don't believe in no God. Ah ain't gonna work next to no blasphemer! Ah don't wanna git struck by no lightnin'. Ah may be a sinner aw right. Yeah, But ah
believes.
Ah damn sure
believes!

Boss Paul just stood there, his shotgun cradled under his left arm, smiling down at Luke who was slashing away at the bushes in his berserk manner, cutting left and right in a fury of labor.

It began to rain. Boss Godfrey signaled to the men at the head of the line to load up into the cage truck. As
each man finished his strip he clambered out of the ditch, went down to where the truck was parked and got in. Boss Godfrey leaned one hand on the bars beside the open door, holding his cane in the other.

Dragline walked along the edge of the road, looking back over his shoulder, his face full of fear as the lightning cracked and hammered down on the countryside. But Luke was laughing out loud, pausing in his work to turn his face up into the downpour, paying no attention to the rules or the Law, unafraid of the Walking Boss or of the guards, undaunted by their weapons or their deities.

Hey Drag? Where's that thunderbolt Drag? Where is that big, bad God of yours? That god of power and wrath and vengeance? Or is he a God of love? I forget now Dragline. Which is it, anyway?

Luke raised his bush axe high. From out of the slimy water towards the sky there rose a stiff continuity of striped pants and muscled, sunburned body, his hands tightly gripping the long handle of the bush axe which extended straight above his head to the sharp, curved blade that glinted there in the storm between heaven and earth.

Then it fell with a whack. Left and right it rose and fell again, his arms knotting and bending and flexing as Luke cut a swath through the tangled thicket that clogged the channel of mud. It thundered and the lightning cracked as the pulsing movements of Luke's arms and shoulders answered with the ultimate twitch of life.

When he finished his strip he climbed up to the road. He was the last man, the rest of us already loaded
up. Smiling in his own secret way, he walked down the road to the tool truck and passed up his bush axe to Rabbit who was shivering impatiently in the rain. Then he walked towards the door in the cage that yawned open, ready to swallow him down as it had already swallowed the rest of us.

Beside that gaping hole stood Boss Godfrey leaning against the bars. His face was turned towards the sky, his mirrored glasses reflecting the dark gray clouds of the storm as the lightning beat down on the earth in swift, punishing strokes like the terrible Walking Stick of the man with no eyes.

AGAIN, THE WEEKEND ROLLED AROUND. That Sunday, about eleven in the morning, the Yard Man opened the gate and came into the Building, walking with that slumped shoulder way of his, his back bent, his chest caved in, his head lowered. On the porch he paused to look up at Gator from under his eyebrows and over his glasses, his false teeth clicking and moving from side to side in his jaws.

Where's Luke?

He's inside, Boss. Playin‘ poker.

The Yard Man went inside. Rabbit was dealing, Luke and a few others picking up their cards and studying their developing hand. Everyone else glanced up at the Yard Man as he stood there by the table. But not Luke. He was whistling a tuneless rhythm through his teeth, idly rearranging the cards in his hand.

Without a word, the Yard Man dropped a telegram on the blanket, turned and shuffled away.

Luke looked at the telegram which had already been opened and read. He stared at it, threw in his cards, got up and went to his bunk. A few minutes later we heard Luke's banjo. He was playing very softly, picking out the slow melody of an old hymn on one string.

Koko found out what was the matter. He went over to Luke's bunk and found him sitting on the floor, his bare feet tucked up beneath his drawn-up legs. He picked at his banjo, tears streaming down his face and over his bare chest. Koko looked at the telegram lying there on the floor. Luke's mother had died early that morning from a sudden heart attack.

For the rest of the day the Building was hushed. Radios were turned low, voices were subdued. There was no horseplay, no yelling, no laughter. Luke was left alone to brood by himself, the rest of us knowing what it was like to be on the inside while our families celebrated and suffered, struggled and mourned without us. Luke could send no flowers, pay no homage, convey no sense of his presence to the rest of his family.

All afternoon he sat on the ground behind the Building, seeking what little privacy he could get, slowly picking out that same church hymn on the same single string. Boss Kean was on duty that weekend, stationed on the rear gun platform beside the laundry shed just outside the corner of the fence. He sat there with his legs crossed, the double-barreled shotgun across his lap, chewing his quid as he stared at Luke with a frown.

When the new week began on Monday the whole Bull Gang was tense and anxious. Everyone moved with a clumsy and hopeless concentration on his work. At Smoking Period everyone sat or lay on the slope of the ditch, looked down at the ground, sifted sand through his fingers or played with twigs. We were actually relieved when it was time to go back to work, feeling better with our tools in our hands.

Boss Godfrey walked slowly up and down the road, idly swinging his Walking Stick with the handle hooked over one finger. At the far end of the line he would pause, swing his Stick at a piece of trash or a clump of dirt and then slowly begin sauntering back again.

At the end of the day when we unloaded and lined up on the sidewalk to be shaken down we could see that the light bulb over the open door to the Box was burning. And there was a night shirt draped over the top of the latticework screen.

Desperately we searched our souls. Who was it going to be? Had we Eyeballed? Were we guilty of Loudtalking? Did we leave a butt or a match on the floor by our
bunk or turn in the top sheet for weekly washing instead of the bottom one?

The last ones to be put in the Cooler were Loudmouth Steve and Cottontop for bickering and arguing and finally fighting out on the road. The one before that was Ugly Red who found a bottle in a ditch with an inch of whiskey in the bottom. A guard spotted him as he tried to sneak a quick drink while squatting on his knees and pretending to take a piss. But since then there had been no fights, no arguments, no broken tool handles. We were unaware of any plots.

One by one the Walking Boss shook us down. I could hear the man next to me let out his breath as he lowered his arms, turned around and began taking the things out of his cap and putting them back in his pockets. Then the Walking Boss was poking through my own cap as I held it up. Slowly I felt his hands rub along my upraised arms, down my sides, slap at my pockets, run down both sides of my left leg and then my right leg. A second's pause. A tap on the right shoulder. Then I too let out my breath and relaxed, immediately feeling righteous and wondering who had been the naughty one, the poor, mischievous bastard who had to suffer for his sins.

The Captain and the Yard Man stood about twenty feet behind us, waiting and saying nothing. Behind them stood Boss Shorty with his pump repeater. One of the trustees was busy putting a gallon of water and a chamber pot inside the Box.

But Boss Godfrey continued down the line until the
whole squad had been shaken down. Again we held our breaths, our stomachs tightening. Slowly Boss Godfrey strolled towards the Captain who took a drag on his cigarette and spit three times.

With a faint growl, Boss Godfrey spoke.

Luke. Fall out.

He knew what he had to do. Without a word he stepped out of line and walked along the fence down to the Box, pulling his shirt and jacket off as he went. Stepping behind the laticework screen he took off his pants and shoes, the Trustee taking away all his clothes as he slipped the old-fashioned night shirt over his head. Luke knew better than to ask any questions. Nor did he expect any explanations.

He stepped inside the Box. The Yard Man slammed the door and padlocked it. The Trustee slid the heavy bar in place.

Shuffling back to the gate, the Yard Man swung it open, his false teeth clicking as we counted through. Everything went on as usual. There was nothing for anyone to do or say. There were no questions to ask. For we all knew that Luke had been put in the Box because he might try to escape in order to attend his mother's funeral.

That night, when any of us got up to use the john, we took a quick peek through the bars and the screens on the windows before lying down again. Outside, the light was burning.

We all knew about the Box. We knew what Luke was feeling as he lay there on the rough wooden floor,
shivering in the cold night air, slapping at the mosquitoes that swarmed in, attracted by the light outside the grating. We knew that he was stiff and cramped and unable to sleep. He was tired and dirty from his day on the Road. He was hungry and wanted a smoke.