Cool Hand Luke (18 page)

But we still didn't know Luke. We didn't know him at all.

One of the cooks told us what happened. Early the next morning, before the First Bell, the Yard Man went out with the cook and a guard and opened the Box in order to give Luke a few catheads, to dump his slop bucket and give him some fresh water. But when the door was unlocked and swung back, they saw Luke lying there fast asleep, his head towards the door.

The Yard Man flew into a rage and began kicking Luke in the face.

You son of a bitch! Stand up! Stand up when I come in! You hear me? Stand up back there like you're s‘posed to!

Luke sprang to his feet, shaking his head, groping for the wall of the Box, blood trickling from a cut on his lip and streaming down the front of his night shirt. Swaying and blinking his eyes, he stood there, the Yard Man scowling at him, his false teeth moving back and forth and clicking in his jaws. Without a word, he slammed the door shut and locked it.

All that day Luke was left in the Box as we went out on the Road. After work we came back in, ate our supper, showered and went to bed. All night the bulb was still burning on the front of the Box.

Wednesday morning the Yard Man went out with a trustee and a guard. When they swung back the door they found Luke standing at the rear of the Box, his arms folded across his chest. The Yard Man started to grin but Luke cut him short with a growl—

Shut the god damn door, Boss. You're lettin‘ in a draft.

The Yard Man didn't move. He just stood there looking at Luke from under his eyebrows. Then his false teeth started clicking again and he slammed the door as hard as he could.

We went to work that day and also the next. Still the bulb burned on the front of the Box.

The morning after that the Yard Man opened up the Box, Boss Kean standing behind him with his shotgun aimed right at Luke's belly, one eye squinted tight, the double muzzles wobbling and jerking as the old man quivered, trying to concentrate and chew his plug of Red Mule at the same time.

Luke was standing at the rear of the Box, his arms crossed over his chest in exactly the same posture as they had left him two days before. Except that his eyes weren't quite right and his face was dirty and bearded.

Rudolph, the bloodhound puppy which the guards used for a pet was running all around, his long ears flopping loosely, barking and crouching, sniffing at Boss Kean's heels while he tried to kick him away without losing his aim or his chew. The Yard Man grinned. In his hand he held a single, heavy biscuit. He tossed it up and down, weighing it in the palm of his hand.

You hongry Luke? How ‘bout a nice, hot cathead? Big eater like you must be hongry. Been four days. Ah reckon this would taste mighty good right about now. But damn. Wait a minute. Little ole Rudolph here looks pretty hongry too. Cain't mistreat a pore, innercent hound that a-way. Tell you what. Why don't we split it with the pooch? O.K.?

The Yard Man grinned and broke the biscuit in half. He held one piece in his left hand. He held the other up over Rudolph as he barked and wagged his tail, sat on his haunches and gazed up at the tempting tid bit.

Come on, Rudolph. Speak to me, baby. Come on now. Be good. Speak to me. Speak! Speak!

Rudolph barked, turned his head and gazed sideways up at the biscuit. Then he stood up as the Yard Man fed it to him, eagerly gulping it down as he was patted on the ribs with hollow slaps.

The Yard Man turned to Luke.

Well, Luke. Here's your piece. Better eat it slow. There won't be no more till tomorrow.

Squinting his eyes into narrow, concentrated slits, Luke growled in a low, even voice.

Might as well give Rudolph the other half too, Boss. I just ain't much hungry.

The Yard Man pushed the side of his lower plate deeply into his left cheek.

Gawd damn you! Ah'll fix yore fuckin‘ ass! But good! Rudolph! Here. Here, boy. Boss Kean? You watch this man close. He's a trouble maker and has been known
to be plannin' escape attempts. If he tries anything a-tall, you know the Law.

Furiously, the Yard Man slumped away towards the Captain's Office, his shoulders hunched forward, his head down. In five minutes he came back with an aluminum bowl of Epsom salts. He stood a minute looking at Luke, his dried and wrinkled face grimaced into a mask.

Drink this, bastard. And don't tell me you ain't thirsty. Ah know you're thirsty. And Boss Kean here knows you're thirsty too.

Luke drank the salts straight down with no expression at all and handed back the bowl. Then they locked the Box again. For three more days.

The rest of us went on with our routines. That was a Friday. That morning we went out on the Road and made the day but the weekend passed with tense expectation. We did the usual things but there was a difference, an atmosphere of sullen helplessness hanging over the Camp. Nothing was ever said about Luke. Not out loud. But we were all thinking the same thing.

And about the Box what is there to say? During the day the sun beats down on the metal roof. You try to entertain yourself with thoughts, with attempts to decipher the meanings of the sounds outside—the squeaks and bangs, doors slamming, voices, the movement of trucks. At intervals you drink from the can of water. Occasionally you will chin yourself up and gaze through the narrow grating at the top of the wall for a quick peek outside. Several times a day the laxatives will force you to sit on the
chamber pot, the hot, close air overwhelming you with the stench of your own guts.

At night you lie on your back, trying to concentrate on anything at all that will take your thoughts away from the cramps in your belly, lying there at the bottom of a black pit, the dimensions of which are exactly those of a grave. The grating above you is shining from the light of the bulb outside, the chain link mesh just as silvery and delicate as the web of a spider.

You lie there and shiver and listen to the whine of the insects. Monstrous waves begin to surge in and out, drowning you with every change of the tide. Spouts of sand drift in from no matter where, choking you in the hourglass of time of which you are in the expended portion.

On Monday morning, just before the First Bell, we heard the door to the Building being unlocked. Carr and the Wicker Man opened and closed the gate to the Chute and there was Luke, standing in his night shirt with his shoes and his clothes in his arms and with a week's growth of whiskers on his face.

After allowing him to go into the Messhall and have breakfast they took him back into the Building for a one day Lay-in. The Yard Man and a trustee went through the same procedure as for any convict who is too sick to go out on the Road. Except that they didn't give Luke the usual prescription of two Brown Bombers and a bowl of hot Epsom salts. Moving his bunk next to the toilets within reach of the water faucet, they padlocked a tenfoot
chain around his ankle. The other end was padlocked to the frame of his bunk. During the day the trustees brought him some beans and corn bread and when we returned that night he had already been unchained. He ate supper with us in the Messhall and later he shaved and took a bath and fell into bed.

On Tuesday he went out on the Road, stiffly clambering into the truck with the rest of us, sitting on the bench in his usual place and silently smoking as much as he could. When we reached the job and the cage was unlocked he climbed out of the truck with difficulty, limping a little bit as he went over to the tool truck and got his shovel from Jim. For the rest of the day Luke took it easy. He was weak and his old wounds were bothering him. He did just enough work to keep up with the slowest man, conserving what strength he had left.

And all day Boss Godfrey stood on the shoulder of the road, leaning on his Walking Stick, staring down at Luke laboring in the bottom of the ditch. When he moved up Boss Godfrey strolled along with him, resuming his pose as Luke went back to work.

That night Luke ate a light supper. We knew that his stomach had shrunk and that he was more tired than he was hungry. After taking a shower he went straight to his bunk, falling asleep immediately.

The next morning he was slow in getting up and getting dressed, moving with great effort. He was the last one to come out of the Messhall and join the huddled groups standing near the porch, their cigarettes glowing in
the darkness and making fast red arcs to hesitate and brighten and reveal a face isolated amid the dark forms.

We went through the procedure of lining up and being counted by the Yard Man, counting off out loud as we went through the gate. The spotlights revealed the morning scene of trucks, guards and walking bosses. We stood there half asleep, listening to the barking of the dogs. The Captain took a long drag on his butt and began spitting drily through pursed lips.

Aw right, Boss. Move‘em out.

We began counting off by two's, loading up into the cage truck, Cool Hand Luke bringing up the rear. Boss Godfrey held the edge of the gate with one hand as we scrambled inside and took our places. Luke raised his foot to mount the steps, hesitated and reached for the edge of the door. Painfully he pulled himself up to the first step. But he was too slow. We could see the Captain watching. And Boss Godfrey also knew that the Captain was watching. For in the complex hierarchy of the Chain Gang every boss has another boss, the purely eternal rising on high right up through the Captain and even beyond until it ultimately reaches the Great White Father himself, who reigns supreme in Tallahassee.

Boss Godfrey lashed out with a high kick, his foot catching Luke on the upper part of his thigh. Swiftly the Walking Stick landed three times on his shoulders and back with loud whacking noises, Luke's shoes banging and scraping on the steps as he struggled to climb inside.

But instead of moving forward and taking his place
Cool Hand turned around in the doorway and stared down at Boss Godfrey, looking directly into the shining silver of his anonymous eyes with an expression of defiance.

Boss Godfrey threw a punch right at Luke's belly which he barely avoided by stepping back. Boss Godfrey reached in his hip pocket for his blackjack and mounted the steps. Inside the truck there was pandemonium. Again and again the Walking Boss swung his blackjack. There was a wild scramble of arms and legs, scraping feet and rattling chains, a melee of struggling bodies as all of us tried desperately to get out of the way. Luke fell to the floor and rolled away, trying to crawl under the bench and cover his head with his arms to ward off the blows. Boss Godfrey kicked and punched, his big body hampered by the closeness of the cage and the crush of bodies, panting as he cursed at Luke,

Damn you smart ass bastard! Who the fuck do you think you are? Showin‘ your ass around here? Huh? Ah'll teach you some gawd damn respect. Right now.

Luke ended up under one of the benches, his face to the wall, Boss Godfrey giving him one or two final kicks before stamping out of the cage and down the steps, slamming the gate shut and locking it, leaping into the cab and roaring away.

BUT BY THE TIME THE FOURTH OF JULY came around everything had settled down. Boss Godfrey didn't have such a hard-on for Luke anymore and gradually the Heat began to cool off. He did his work and ate his beans. He shot the bull, cracked jokes and played the Dozens. Every night he sat up and played poker and on Saturday morning he took out his banjo, tuning up the strings and starting the weekend by flailing out a vigorous Lonesome Road melody.

In the Chain Gang the Fourth of July has always been the big holiday of the year. Perhaps the idea is to instill in all of us a burning love of country. And hence a love for law and order. In any case, Independence Day is a very big deal. Nobody worked. Jabo the Cook mixed up twenty-five gallons of lemonade in a big wooden barrel and had two trustees carry it into the Building. In the afternoon a truck came back from town with a load of watermelons and they issued out a half-melon to every man in Camp.

It was a Glorious Fourth all right. All day long the radios blasted away. We boxed and wrestled and played Grab Ass, four Chain Men jitterbugging in the middle of the floor, stamping their feet, leaping and twirling, their shackles jingling and tinkling away in frantic celebration.

After supper we checked into the Building in the usual manner but instead of the eight o‘clock bell that would have ordinarily sent us all to bed in absolute silence, we were allowed to stay up until midnight and make all the noise we wanted.

Each of the four radios was tuned to a different station, hillbilly music wailing and screeching at full volume. At the same time the Terrible Trio was hard at work, Luke's banjo, Koko's old, beat-up guitar and Dragline's harmonica all going at once, banging out a melody all their very own. The Family seemed to have a preference for the live orchestra and gradually men began to gather in a tight knot in the space between the two double bunks where Luke and Koko slept.

They stood shoulder to shoulder around an inner ring of men who sat on the floor, the entire congregation stamping their feet, clapping their hands and singing their lungs out.

Sleep was out of the question. So was reading. I finally gave up and went over to the barrel and with a dipper I filled up a Pepsi Cola bottle with lemonade. Shuffling barefooted towards the hootenanny, I stepped aside to avoid the ponderous bulk of the Floorwalker as he went swaggering by, his massive shoulders rolling from side to side, his cigar going, his eyes sharp as he scowled at his evening charges. Up and down the Building he paced away the hours, Carr, the Floorwalker; half-convict and half-Free Man, as stem and mighty as the Colossus of Rhodes, straddling the fence of crime while we ordinary vessels sailed in and out between his legs.

I went over to the celebrating crowd, taking a long swallow of lemonade and looking over Little Greek's shoulder at the orchestra within the inner circle. And there stood Cool Hand Luke in the very epicenter of it all, barechested, his banjo going hell bent for election, his eyes closed, that secret smile carved into his lips.