Cool Hand Luke (21 page)

Cheerfully we made the day, loading up into the cage truck and lighting up our smokes, getting down on
our knees to stare through the bars, Eyeballing at the traffic, the houses, the Cadillacs and the girls. We were the last squad to check in that night. When we arrived we found the other three squads already lined up on the sidewalk, the walking bosses and the guards standing behind them. Everyone had been shaken down but there was no signal to begin checking in through the gate. The Captain sat in his rocking chair on the porch of his Office, his legs crossed, taking a quick drag on his butt and then busily spitting away. The Yard Man stood behind him, his grin distorted by his false teeth. To one side was a trustee and also the Dog Boy who stood there smirking at us.

The Captain said something. The Yard Man went inside the Office and then came out, followed by a shotgun guard who was followed by Cool Hand Luke.

We stood there, our heads bowed, our hats in our hands, our pockets turned inside out. Sullenly we watched as they led Luke down the steps to the sidewalk where they made him take off his shoes and roll up the cuffs of his pants. Then the trustees put the rings of a pair of shackles around his ankles and riveted them closed with a hammer.

Our faces were screwed up tight, almost ready to cry. Luke stood there, his face gaunt and tired and bewhiskered. But he ignored the two men working around his ankles and took out his can of State tobacco, removing a cigarette paper and beginning to roll a smoke, glancing up for a sly wink at Koko. Holding his head erect and his shoulders back, he sprinkled the tobacco in the folded
paper with calm and steady fingers. Just as he took out his matches and was lighting up, the Captain got out of his rocking chair, came down the steps, pulled a blackjack out of his hip pocket and let Cool Hand have it right behind the ear.

The can fell on the sidewalk with a clatter, spilling tobacco and papers. Luke sagged, falling on top of the Dog Boy who cursed and struggled with flailing fists to get out from under the sudden dead weight that had landed on his head and shoulders. Then he froze, drawing back as the Captain shouldered him aside, kicking at Luke's belly and letting out a shrill nasal scream.

Get up! Get up you damn bastard! Don't you never smoke in front of me again! You hear? You hear? Never! Never! Now stand up there right. The way you're supposed to.

Luke raised up on one elbow, shaking his head and blinking his eyes, a trickle of blood streaming down his cheek, his ear and neck. He struggled, slipped, fell back again, almost lapsing into unconsciousness. The Captain stood over him, hissing.

Stand up, damn you! Stand up when I talk to you.

Luke got up, swaying as the trustees went on with their work, bent over in an apprehensive crouch.

We stood there watching until they finished putting on the shackles. Then they took him by the arms and led him forward, stopping just a few feet in front of us. The Yard Man barked an order and we started through the gate, each of us looking into Cool Hand's face, trying to
tell him something with our eyes just as we tried to tell him something with our voices as we turned our heads and counted off—

—four
-teen—FIFTEEN!—(Sixteen)—seven-TEEN?

So the glorious escape had failed. Luke was thrown into the Box and the next day sent out on the Road. All day he dug and pitched, clumsy with the unfamiliar links fettering his legs, the chain rattling and banging awkwardly as he kicked against the blade of his shovel.

All day Boss Kean stood over Luke, assigned as his personal guard. Boss Kean has served on the Florida Chain Gang for twenty-two years. Before that he was on the Georgia Chain Gang for eleven years. A true Cracker, he was born and raised on the edge of the Okeefenokee Swamp, a dedicated, hard working, God-fearing man. And in all his years of guarding convicts he ain't never had to kill no white man. He killed a few niggers in his time but never no white man. Course he wounded two of them once but they never did die.

But still you never can tell. And he'd sure hate to have to shoot no white man. But a body has to do his work. Boss Kean believes in work. And any time he catches either of his two no ‘count sons fooling around reading or if he just finds some old book or magazine or one of them newspapers laying around the house, why, he just throws it out into the yard, that's all. He never had no use for reading himself. Never did have time to bother learning how to do it. Too busy out doing a man's work. In fact he don't believe in nothing that takes a man's mind
away from his work. No sir. A man should never let nothing take his mind away from his work.

Not once during the day did Luke dare look up. Even when a car slowed down and the driver threw out a pack of Free World cigarettes that landed almost at his feet, he had to go on with his shoveling, leaving them lying there, untouched and unseen. And with the Heat as bad as it was, we didn't dare try to talk to him, to find out what had happened, pretending to ignore his very existence.

Hour after hour Boss Kean stood nearby, going on and on.

Ah hears tell you don't b‘lieve in no God, Luke. Ah was wonderin' how come a nice lookin‘ young feller like you was to come to git in heah. But now ah reckons ah knows.

The old man began to pace back and forth, growing tense, anxious, his own thoughts making him angry, shifting his shotgun from one arm to the other and idly fingering the butt of his pistol. Across the road the other guards watched. Farther down the line Boss Paul stood and smiled. And farther still Boss Godfrey leaned heavily on his Walking Stick, the blank wall of his face turned Luke's way, seeing nothing, yet seeing all.

Boss Kean went on:

Even the heathen, them Chinee people and them thar Japs—even
they
knows thar's
somethin‘
up yonder. Ah jes don' unnerstan‘ how a feller kin stan' thar and say he don't
b‘lieve.
No suh! Don't nevah tell me that. That's
one thing ah b'lieves in. The soopreme spir't. Eff'n thar warn't no hereafter—why—eff'n a man was to git in mah way, ah'd jes blow his haid off. Right off. An‘ think no more about it than eff'n it war a rabbit. Eff'n ah seen a gal and ah wonted a piece. Ah'd jes take it off'n her and go on. Eff'n they was to hang me, ah wouldn't keer. Ah could suffer a few minutes aw right. But for
eternity!
No suh. Don't tell me that. No spir't? Oh, man. Naw. Naw.

That night when the Bull Gang got out of the truck and lined up, there was only one night shirt ready. After we were shaken down there was a pause while the Captain slowly exhaled the cigarette smoke through his nose.

Luke. Boss Kean says you were Eyeballin‘ today.

Luke said nothing.

Well? What about it?

Yes sir, Captain.

They put Luke in the Box. In the morning they took him out and sent him back to the Road. All day Boss Kean stood over him and heckled and jibed and that night the Captain again called Luke out and said he had been Eyeballing and again they put him in the Box.

This went on for a week. Luke was living on just two meals a day; a breakfast of thin grits, one egg, a couple of catheads; a dinner of corn bread and beans. But as far as anyone could tell, this didn't bother Luke any. He just ate more beans than he usually did, cut down on his smoking and learned how to be comfortable sleeping in the Box.

But since Luke was never allowed to come into the
Building we never had a chance to talk to him. Finally we couldn't stand it any longer. So in spite of the Heat, a few of us gathered around him at Bean Time.

Cool Hand lay there stretched out on the ground, leaning his back against the trunk of a gigantic live oak tree that shaded the entire Bull Gang with its canopy of gnarled, twisted branches and its festoons of Spanish moss. He took a long, thoughtful drag on his cigarette, stared up into the leaves overhead and in a matter-of-fact voice, he told us all about it.

For three nights and two days the chase had gone on. Luke would run and dodge the dogs and then lay down for short naps, his instinct telling him when to wake up and start running again. He lived on oranges he picked in the groves, vegetables he swiped from gardens and ate raw, water he drank from the ponds. But in the end he decided he was going to have to steal a car.

Coming to the outskirts of a town, he hid in a clump of palmettos, examining the rows of houses in the new development. He was still wearing his convict clothes and the posse was getting close. He was nearly cut off from the woods and was facing the prospect of trying to run through the streets of a residential area.

Then a woman drove up and parked her car in a front yard, getting out and carrying a baby into the house. Luke ran across the street and got in. The keys were still in the ignition lock and he started up and drove away.

Not until later did he realize that the back seat was loaded with groceries. Eagerly he ate white bread, cookies,
butter in huge mouthfuls, sugar right out of the bag. He ate raisins, sardines, an apple, a banana—goodies some of us haven't tasted in years.

So anyhow. It's a good thing that woman took the baby out first. You know? Instead of the groceries? Otherwise they'd of had me up on a kidnappin‘ rap. That really would be somethin'. As it is I'll probably get more Time. For swipin‘ the car. They told me they're gonna bring me up on charges for that.

Off the ground at last, Luke roared away in the car to escape the immediate area. Then he drove off the main highway and went up a lonely dirt trail, just two grooved ruts winding through the woods. He parked under some trees and then curled up and went to sleep, getting his first real rest in days. He didn't wake up until long after dark, ate some more of the woman's groceries and then began driving back to the highway.

Behind a juke joint that was going in full swing he found some cars parked away from the glare of the bright neon lights out front. He swiped a license plate from one of them and used it to replace the one on the hot car, getting in and heading straight for the Alabama State line.

Luke was clever. He stayed on back roads, guided by a road map he found in the glove compartment of the car. He knew he could only count on a few hours before his ruse would be discovered but he was careful not to attract any attention by driving too fast.

But what Luke didn't know was that in the state of Florida the first number of a license plate signifies the
county in which it is registered. And if the car is above a certain weight the first number is followed by a lower case “w.” Inadvertently he had swiped the wrong kind of plate, taking it from a Buick sedan and putting it on a two-door Ford.

Cool Hand kept heading north and west, wondering how long his gasoline would hold out. By three in the morning he was in Pensacola, pulled up behind a semi-trailer waiting for a red light. And then a police car came out of a side street on a routine patrol and pulled up behind Luke's car. He saw them in the rear-view mirror. It was a delayed traffic light. The seconds dragged on. And then one of the two cops spotted the wrong tag and got out to investigate. Cool Hand saw him coming but there was nothing he could do. The semi-trailer prevented him from driving away and the prowl car was too close behind him to try to run for it. So all he could do was sit there, smoking a cigarette and drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, hoping that somehow he could brazen it out.

But already suspicious, the cop approached the car on the side opposite the driver's seat. When he looked through the window he saw the stripe on Luke's pant leg. Immediately he pulled his pistol, aimed it at Luke and began yelling for his partner to come over. Not until then did the traffic light change and the semi-trailer drove away.

So Luke was caught. It was as easy as that.

HE HOBBLED ALONG, DOING HIS TIME WITHOUT ever making a complaint, working as only he knew how to work. Every night they took him out of line and put him in the Gator. Every morning he was taken out and put back on the Road, never allowed to come into the Building to take a shower or shave or to change his clothes, the blood still there on the side of his head, matted in his hair above the raw cut left by the Captain's blackjack. After a few days he looked like a bewhiskered animal; a shackled, limping, foul-smelling beast. We
growled and muttered among ourselves. No one had ever been hard-timed like this before. But the Free Men had a very special hard-on for Luke and they were never going to let him up.

The Dog Boy was delighted by the whole situation. Every morning he would be in the line of trustees in the Messhall, ladling out the coffee, the grits, the fat back and our very own egg. He would wait with a big grin until Luke was brought in from the Box and put at the end of the chow line. Then he would loudtalk at Luke, making all sorts of wisecracks.

Hey, hogbelly. You ain't got to eat so much no more. Your runnin‘ days are over. Ole Lawyer Bush said he couldn't git you no parole no way. So hell, man. Take it easy. Look, ah'll jes give you one cathead. Fer now. You can always come back a little later if you want another one.

The Silent System applies to everyone in the Messhall, the trustees obliged to keep their own talking down to a minimum of business only. But the Dog Boy had always enjoyed a special status with the Free Men and in this case they were greatly amused by his wit.

Luke never said a word. He just looked at the Dog Boy and held out his plate, standing there quietly until he was served. Until the day the Dog Boy snarled at him,

Well, hogbelly. It's gittin‘ so's you even smell like a gawd damn pig. The way you stink we sure wouldn't have no trouble trackin' you down the next time. Hell, I could even follow your trail myself.

Luke stood there in his filth, bearded, bleary eyed and exhausted. In a low, deep voice that filled the Messhall, the kitchen and the Guard's Messhall next door, he growled,