Cool Hand Luke Part 3

Through this noise came the shouts of the convicts as they streamed through the gate outside, counting off with booming voices that drifted over the camp like gunshots. The Newc.o.c.ks sat to one side, motionless, embarra.s.sed, smoking with the calmness one learns how to a.s.sume. One by one the gangs counted through the gate, running eagerly across the yard to open wooden lockers built against the wall of the Building outside. Some went to the Messhall door to line up. Others came running inside the Building with sc.r.a.ping shoes, with yells, curses and songs, shoving for standing room around the toilets, Dragline growling out like an enraged bear, Git out'n the way, Onion Haid.

d.a.m.n Drag. Ah gotta p.i.s.s don't ah?

You gotta p.i.s.s? Ah'll p.i.s.s right in your Gawd d.a.m.n pocket in about a minute.

And then I saw him. There was Lloyd Jackson, sitting on the bench with his legs crossed, his elbow on top of the table, a b.u.t.t in his fingers. His eyes were half-closed, watching the men as they came storming in. There was a slight smile on his lips. And it was in that smile that I recognized him, remembering that far away expression that I had seen in the photograph in the paper.

The Wicker Man chased everybody outside and we all lined up in front of the Messhall waiting for the Walking Boss on duty to give us the signal to start going in.

Inside the Messhall there was a stack of aluminum plates by the door and everyone filed by a low table in the center where the trustees ladled out the string beans and rice. And at the other end there was a pan full of crude chunks of fried ham. The Newc.o.c.ks were amazed. Other than the greasy, slimy fat back served about once a week, there is no meat at all up in Raiford. None. Unless you can afford to buy your own hamburgers at the Canteen. And you have to be a trustee to get to the Canteen.

After supper the rest of us checked into the Building. But the Newc.o.c.ks waited outside on the porch until we had been frisked and counted and allowed to pa.s.s inside. Then Carr counted them in, tolerantly patient if they hadn't quite learned what they were expected to do.

The last one came through the Chute. Carr entered, the Wicker Man locking the outside door behind him. Then Carr swung the heavy wooden gate shut, the long iron tongue sticking through the slot into the Wicker where the Free Man locked it with a heavy padlock. Again, we were tucked in for the night.

The Newc.o.c.ks huddled together at the poker table, waiting for someone to tell them what to do. But they were ignored by the Family as we went on with our usual routines.

Since the hot water supply only lasts for fifteen minutes everyone takes a bath at the same time. At least twenty men were in the shower, wading back and forth through a pool of mud and lathered soapsuds, jostling for position under one of the five shower heads in a shuffling ma.s.s of arms and legs and bare a.s.ses, the men all twotoned, with upper bodies burned black by the sun and white as snow from the waist down.

But there is a system. And I could tell that Jackson was sitting over there observing the system.

After the showers everyone smoked and talked. But the voices were kept low, scarcely above a murmur. The Newc.o.c.ks responded to this restrained atmosphere with caution. The first two whispered to themselves but Jackson said nothing at all. The radios were playing but with the volume so low that several heads were pressed close to the loudspeaker. The toilets were all occupied and other men lounged nearby, waiting for a chance to go. The smell was terrible but we were accustomed to it, the men in the showers and those writing letters at the table paying no attention.

Carr, the Floorwalker, was pacing up and down the room, rolling with his bearlike swagger, his 230-pound body rocking from side to side, his arms and shoulders swinging. But his feet were noiseless, wearing crepe soled shoes. Angrily he scowled, glaring at no one and at nothing, moving his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other, plowing right through the middle of a huddle of convicts and scattering them like October leaves.

Aw right. Let's have a little quiet in here. Otherwise a couple of you guys will spend the rest of the night out in the Gator.

I saw Jackson give a hard look at Carr, probably incensed at the idea of a convict giving orders to other convicts. Yet he gave no sign. Only his eyes moved, following Carr a few minutes and then looking at the other men.

After everyone was out of the shower and things had settled down a little bit, Carr called the Newc.o.c.ks together for a talk. But we just went on with our affairs, making wallets, reading, listening to a radio, sitting in for a few hands at the poker table.

Carr was growling, so low he was almost inaudible. He spoke out of the corner of his mouth, his voice deliberately deep and grating, his lips pursed together, his eyes flitting around the Building so as not to miss a trick of what was going on.

Carr laid down the law: There will be no Loudtalking in the Building. There will be no playing Grab a.s.s. The First Bell is at five minutes to eight and everyone will get on his bunk for a count. Right away. The Last Bell is at eight o'clock. After that there will be no talking at all. The lights are never turned out in the Building. So you can read if you want to after the Last Bell. But there will be no smoking in bed. If you want to smoke you will sit up with both legs over the edge of the bunk. Anyone caught smoking while lying down will spend a night in the Box.

In Raiford you only get one sheet. Here you get two. Every week you switch the top sheet to the bottom and turn the bottom sheet in to the Laundry Boy. Then you put the clean sheet on top. Anybody who turns in the wrong sheet will spend a night in the Box.

The Building will not look like a Greek wh.o.r.ehouse. Everyone's a.s.s will be covered with shorts or with a towel. No one will sit on his bunk with dirty pants on. Anyone caught sitting on his bunk with his pants on will spend a night in the Box.

Those who drop a b.u.t.t on the floor or even a match, spend a night in the Box. If you buy a c.o.ke at the Juke and do not bring back the bottle-if you do any Loudtalking-if you check out in the morning without taking all all your personal junk with you-you spend a night in the Box. your personal junk with you-you spend a night in the Box.

If there are any questions, you see Carr.

These Newc.o.c.ks had arrived just before the men they were to replace had gone home. Therefore the Family was temporarily overpopulated and the Yard Man had had three extra bunks and mattresses brought in by the trustees. Under Carr's supervision the new men rigged up the bunks above the top tiers of other bunks in order to form triple deckers. They tossed up the mattresses, pillows and bedding and climbed up the precarious structure to make up their beds for the night.

And then one of them took off his shirt, revealing a large eagle tattooed in red and blue ink across the expanse of his chest. Stupid Blondie and Stupidest Blondie both crowded around, eagerly admiring the art work as the Newc.o.c.k grinned. But as the new man took off his shirt he had also taken off his name. Whatever name he had used before he arrived was totally forgotten and from then on he was known to one and all as Eagle.

Feeling a little more confident, Eagle and the other Newc.o.c.k went to the Juke to buy candy bars and c.o.kes. Jabo the Cook has the concession to the camp store which is a large wooden box filled with all sorts of Free World goodies plus a bucket of ice and a few cases of cold drinks shoved under his bunk.

But as I glanced up over the book I was reading I could see Jackson sitting on the edge of his bunk, his head bent forward to duck under the ceiling. He had a towel wrapped around his middle and his legs were crossed. Calmly he was rolling a smoke with State tobacco, at the same time looking over what was going on in the Building.

Squinting his eyes and c.o.c.king his head he studied the poker game in progress which is the personal concession of the Floorwalker who cuts each pot ten percent. Carr pays the dealer a certain percentage and there is no doubt in our minds that he must also pay off the Captain. Every night, for at least an hour after the Last Bell, the poker game continues, the bets made in whispers, the coins clinking quietly on top of a folded blanket, the cards rustling as they are shuffled, riffled, cut and put together.

In other corners men were talking together in low murmurs, others writing letters home or to the lawyer or to the Parole Board, explaining how they had been completely rehabilitated and were now anxious to begin a new life. Others were reading. Some men were already asleep. Babalugats was still clowning around, imitating Donald Duck. Some were busily lacing up the edges of a new wallet, holding the needle in their teeth as they quickly pulled the five yards of leather lace through one of the punched holes. The chain st.i.tch takes an average of forty-five minutes and the standard rate of pay is ten cents per wallet.

I kept watching Jackson. There was something in the way he held his head and the way he held his cigarette. And I knew that he would always stay under the gun as long as he was here. He was intelligent and he was unafraid. This meant that the Free Men would be down on him from the very beginning. Not only that. There was that smile.

The Wicker Man got out of his chair, sc.r.a.ping his feet as he opened the door and went outside to the porch. He took an iron rod and hit the brake drum that dangles by a piece of wire from the rafters overhead. As the gong reverberated Carr swaggered back and forth between the bunks, calling out with his low and ominous growl- First Bell. First Bell. Let's git to bed.

Everyone scurried about the room with his last minute preparations for the night. Books and magazines were borrowed, pants removed, toilets visited. In a few minutes there was quiet, everyone on his bunk, either lying down or smoking with his legs swung over the edge. But the poker game continued without interruption. Here and there bedsprings were squeaking. Shoes clumped on the floor. Chains rattled. Then silence. Again the Wicker Man went outside and hit the brake drum.

Last Bell. Last Bell.

Carr slowly walked up one side of the Building and back on the other, carefully counting. Then he went over to the Wicker.

Fifty-three, Boss. And one in the Box.

Fifty-three. O.K. Carr.

Bunks and springs squeaked as someone rolled over. The dealer riffled the deck of cards. The silence was broken by a low unintelligible growl. Carr answered the growl with another that matched the intonation and pitch of the first.

Gittinup.

Yeaaaahhhh.

A Chain Man rose from his bunk, catching up his shackles with his string and hook, wrapping a towel around his waist and moving towards the toilets with quick, short, hip-swinging steps. The shackle rattled just once as he sat himself on the throne. In a moment there were other growls.

eeeyaaa!

aaaah!

GIDDYAP.

YEEAP.

Gettin' up, Carr.

No. Full house.

I turned over, moving my head so that the bunk above cast a shadow over my eyes from the light bulb on the ceiling. Then I glanced over to my right and saw Jackson still sitting where he was, legs crossed, one arm across his chest with his hand supporting the opposite elbow, his thumb and first finger holding his cigarette while the other fingers were loosely curled in a masculine gesture of the debonair.

For a moment I tried to think back to what it was like to spend my own first night here. I remembered that the bulb was a torture to my eyes. I was conscious of the whispered giggles from the poker table, the sounds of the Wicker Man puttering in his cage, the growls for permission to get up. And there were the smells-the hot, stale air, the smell of burning coal, dirty clothes, sweat, shoes, the odor of s.h.i.t. And then someone would roll over and the whole precarious apparatus of bunks would sway and creak in response.

Someone let go with a long, delayed, incredibly loud bean fart. Carr answered, Yeeeaaahhhh!

Carr laughed, which for him is to silently snort blasts of air through his nose. The culprit sat up in bed to grin with impish victory at the a.s.sembled world. But the Wicker Man spoke up, using his Free Man's prerogative to speak in a normal voice, which sounded like a yell in the muteness of the Building: THAT FELLER'S GONNA NEED A DOSE OF SALTS, AIN'T HE?

It's just them beans, Boss, answered Carr, placatingly.

Then I slept, shielding my eyes with my pillow. Once I woke up and saw Carr playing solitaire at the table, the poker game broken up, the gamblers sent to bed. Again I slept until next I heard the cooks and trustees being awakened. They dressed. First the gate and then the door were unlocked, opened, closed and locked again. An hour later the Chain Men were getting their early call so they would have time to put on their pants.

Trying to m.u.f.fle the noise, they sat on the floor busily working at the involved procedure. At night they always take off their pants in such a way that one leg is turned inside out and pulled over the other. In the morning the whole thing is gradually worked beneath the ankle ring and pulled over the right leg. Then the outer pant leg is pulled down, leaving the other one in place. The left leg is reversed and pulled down over the right foot and then over the chain and then back up the left leg. After they rigged up their harness and strings they went over to the faucet to wash their faces and brush their teeth.

I lay there for ten minutes, drowsy, reluctant to wake up. Yet I couldn't help but be aware of the tinkle of shackles, the sc.r.a.pe and thud of shoes, the splatter of the water from the faucet. Then the Wicker Man got up and opened the door. I waited. Then he hit the brake drum with the iron bar. Swiftly Carr walked up and down the Building, making sure there were no sleepy heads.

First Bell. Sheets and rolls. First Bell. Let's go.

The bare heels of the Family hit the floor all at once. It was pandemonium. Beds squeaked and swayed, shoes clumped, toilets flushed and gurgled, the faucet trickled as a crowd of men took their turns. All the beds were made up and personal belongings gathered together to be taken outside and stowed in the lockers. Shoe laces were tied and pockets stowed with the necessities of the day. And then the Family was gathered in a silent crowd in front of the gate, smoking and waiting, Carr blocking the exit with his body, facing the crowd with a belligerent scowl which everyone sleepily ignored.

Outside, the guards had taken their places on the gun platforms. The Wicker Man unlocked the gate, went out on the porch and unlocked the outer door. There was a pause. And then exactly five minutes after the First Bell had rung, there was the sound of the Second Bell. Carr swung the gate and door open and stepped aside as the men poured out in a rushing tumult of clumping feet and rattling chains, their voices counting off loud and clear as they went out, each one with a different tone and pitch, each one with a different soul- (one) TWO Three "Four" FIVE Six! seven?

Like little children the Newc.o.c.ks imitated our every move. We tolerated their ignorance with proper dignity, correcting their mistakes and giving advice with gestures and quiet hisses.

It was pitch black outside and cold. Everyone scampered to his locker to put things away. But since there aren't nearly enough lockers to go around the Newc.o.c.ks had to find someone willing to share his s.p.a.ce. Then there was the line in front of the Messhall door. Cigarettes glowed among the shifting silhouettes, phantoms which giggled, cursed and groaned. The line shuffled forward, the voices stilled and the b.u.t.ts put out as another form entered the glowing rectangle of the door, the silhouette of each man suddenly illuminated to those of us still out in the yard.

Inside there was waiting a cup of hot, black water, thin grits, a slab of fat back, catheads and one greasy, cold egg. But the faces of the Newc.o.c.ks reflected their surprise. In Raiford you are served a tiny portion of powdered eggs once a week. And there is a sign on the messhall wall that has been there for as long as anyone can remember, "No Eggs Today."

We ate in a hurry, going outside to wash our spoons under the faucet in the yard and putting them away in our pockets. Quickly we lighted up smokes again, inhaling deeply. We stood in groups and huddles. In a few minutes we began to form a double line that was arranged according to the four squads. Again the Newc.o.c.ks were advised, hissed, gestured and recruited into one or the other of the two Bull Gangs. Eagle was drafted into the big Bull Gang by Stupid Blondie who had fallen madly in love with the tattoo on his chest. The other Newc.o.c.k went with the little Bull Gang, the one which has Boss Palmer for a Walking Boss and is more or less composed of f.u.c.k-ups and hoosiers. But Jackson lingered on the porch, smoking and waiting with the other men. At the last minute he strolled over and got at the end of the big Bull Gang, calmly, as though confident he had made the right choice.

The Yard Man came through the gate, closing it behind him and standing there for a minute with his shoulders hunched under his old leather jacket, his false teeth working back and forth, clicking audibly within the death's head of his face. Then he walked up to the back of the line and snarled out, Aw right, gawd d.a.m.n it. Straighten out them lines.

There was silence. The lines straightened. Hats were bared but cigarettes remained in place. Then the Yard Man walked forward, counting silently. At the gate he spoke through the fence.

Forty-three Cap'n. One in the Box.

Forty-three. All right, Boss. Let 'em out.

The Captain stood motionless with his hands in his pockets. His windbreaker sports jacket was zippered up to his throat, the collar up around the back of his neck. The brim of his Panama hat was pulled over his eyes. He stood there and spat three or four times.

The Yard Man opened the gate and stepped to one side. The left hand column began to file through, each man turning his head to count over his shoulder as clearly as he could so the man behind him wouldn't misunderstand.

-seventeen Eighteenl NINETEEN (twenty)- But the Newc.o.c.k in Boss Palmer's squad began to stutter.

-twenty-uh-twenty-TWENTY- Swiftly the Yard Man kicked him square in the b.u.t.t, grabbing him by the sleeve and pulling him back to the gate.

Git back here, d.a.m.n yore sorry a.s.s! You ain't allowed to be no lazy, raggety a.s.s tramp no more. You hear? You gotta straighten up. But quick. Now git back here and give the right count.

-uh-uh- Twenty-one!

TWENTY-ONEI.

The interrupted column resumed its counting. Then the right hand column started through the gate, drawing abreast of the left which was standing in place. Everyone stood still a few minutes, heads bared, cigarettes glowing. Yet everybody had exactly the same thought. Tramp. The new man's name would have to be Tramp.

The spotlights fixed on the poles surrounding the asphalt ap.r.o.n were glaring down at the parked squad trucks and glaring into our sleepy eyes. The guards were s.p.a.ced all around us, trying to look alert for the Captain's benefit. From the kennels way behind the Building and behind the woodpile we could hear the bloodhounds barking for their breakfast. The yapping of Rudolph the puppy was unmistakable. And so was the deep baritone of Big Blue.

The Walking Bosses stood together about one step behind the Captain. Boss Peters held the nub of his missing arm with his hand. Boss Higgins squinted his eyes and scowled, his hand gripping his stomach which we knew was riddled with ulcers. Boss Palmer stared at us over his bifocals, grinned at nothing, leaning forward to spit and then shifting his quid as he pulled out his watch, replaced it, patted his pot belly and then hooked a thumb in his suspenders. Boss G.o.dfrey stood relaxed, leaning heavily on his cane, taking the cigar out of his mouth with his other hand to roll it back and forth with the tips of his fingers.

Everybody waited. The Captain turned his head and spat.

All right, Boss Higgins. Take 'em away.

The Walking Boss of the big Patch Squad signaled and the men stepped forward, the left hand column counting off by twos. Then the other Patch Squad counted off. Then Boss Palmer's Bull Gang. And then Boss G.o.dfrey straightened up, replaced the cigar in his mouth and sauntered over to the rear of the cage truck, holding the edge of the gate with one hand. He gestured just once, a slight shift of his cane and then we started forward, two by two, mounting the steps and ducking inside as fast as we possibly could.

Bouncing and swerving over the ruts, we roared off into the darkness. We crossed our legs and shifted our feet, rolled up cigarettes and smoked. Rabbit climbed underneath the bench to lay on the floor on his back, pulled his cap over his face and fell asleep. Dynamite got down on his knees, peering through the bars and trying to estimate where the job would be for the day.

But most of us were glum and silent, staring through the bars at the sleeping Free World outside. Occasionally a match was struck, illuminating a sad, serious face in the gloom.

Finally the truck pulled over on the shoulder and stopped. The gate was unlocked. We got out. Jim the Trustee handed down our tools and we started to work. Boss G.o.dfrey walked up the road a bit, turned around and leaned on his cane. He stood there, watching us, silhouetted against the dawn, the sun rising up behind his body, right up through his head and out of the black night he wore for a hat. All day the sun rose high up into the sky while we, stripped to the waist, were seared by its burning rays. But we knew that sun was really the left eye of the Walking Boss just as his right eye is the moon.

8.

ON JACKSON'S FIRST DAY ON THE ROAD WE were shoveling dirt up from the bottom of the ditch to fill in the washouts that the rains had worn along the edge of the pavement. When the slope of the embankment was too high to reach we would carry a shovelful of dirt up the slope and than walk back down to the bottom of the ditch for another shovelful. The Chain Men in the gang always stay on top, their shackles making it too difficult for them to clamber up and down. They brush down the piles and clumps of earth, using the edges of their shovels which they sweep as though they were brooms.

Back and forth and up and down we moved with the same monotonous regularity as pismire ants carrying their grains of sand. And this is exactly why this job is always referred to as p.i.s.s anting.

But unless the terrain is especially hilly we are always able to reach the pavement by pitching the dirt. Each man took a sector of about ten feet. He threw up enough dirt to do the job and then would fill in the holes, that is, he would bevel in the edges of the holes he had dug in the ditch bottom. Then he would move up to the head of the line, leapfrogging the men in front of him.

All morning long the shovels of the Bull Gang were making shiny arcs with graceful and rhythmic swings of muscled arms and twists of bodies. Clumps of dirt sailed through the air in lazy parabolas. The Chain Man held his shovel blade behind the washout, using it for a backstop. I kicked my shovel into the ground, bent back the handle over my knee and with that timing all of us have developed, the clod of dirt flew off like a projectile to splat against the Chain Man's shovel. He held it there and in quick succession I threw up three more. He began to brush it all smooth and I filled in my holes, yelled out to the guards and moved on up to the head of the line.

But Jackson and Eagle were shoveling like mad and getting nowhere. Not having the right balance and leverage, they were only able to throw the dirt a few feet. They tried harder. Their chests panting, their pitches became wilder and more frantic. Patiently we demonstrated the proper technique and when the new men couldn't keep up we would stay back and help them with their sector. And from time to time the new men would have to resort to p.i.s.s anting the dirt up the slope while we merely tossed it up, shoveling away at perfect ease.

The sun got higher and hotter. Everyone took off his jacket and shirt and left it on the edge of the road for Rabbit. But when the pasty white skins of the Newc.o.c.ks were exposed to the sun they began to get a blistering burn. The sweat got in their eyes. They had headaches and their vision blurred. They felt like they were going to vomit, beginning to stagger with wobbling knees. By the time Smoking Period came around both of them were nearly bear caught.

But somehow everyone always makes the day. And at last it was over. Boss G.o.dfrey pulled out his watch and growled a word and everyone surged towards the tool truck, handing up their shovels to Jim and Rabbit and then clambering into the cage truck. The Walking Boss locked the gate and we headed back to Camp.

The truck was in an uproar. As far as the rest of us were concerned it had been an easy day. We laughed and joked, lit up smokes and wondered what there would be for supper. We sorted out our jackets and shirts and put them on, some of us dropping to our knees to lean on the bench and look out through the bars of angle iron to eyeball at the pa.s.sing scenery. The Newc.o.c.ks just sat there, slumped in an exhausted heap, their hands blistered, their backs burned, their muscles cramped and stiff.

But the rest of us were tense and excited as we rolled through the teeming Negro section of town, eyeballing like mad at the black girls strolling by on the sidewalk or sitting on the front porches. Half under our breaths we gasped out our frenzied comments and appraisals, gripping each other by the arm or poking with our elbows to bring attention to a sa.s.sy hip or a huge breast bulging out of a thin cotton dress. Hoa.r.s.ely we swore with outraged frustration whenever there was a smile or a winked response to the row of dirty white faces peering wild eyed from the depths of our rolling cage.

Back at Camp we unloaded, were lined up and shaken down and then counted in through the gate. After supper we all jammed in together in the shower. The Newc.o.c.ks were a bit reluctant to enter into the community bath but Jackson calmly strolled right into the middle of it all, soap in hand.

And then we saw his scars. He had several jagged shrapnel wounds on both legs. There was a long grooved mark that went down his left side, skipped a few inches at his waist and then continued down the side of his b.u.t.tock. We admired his wounds but said nothing. He was still a Newc.o.c.k.

For the rest of that week we p.i.s.s anted the Clay Pit Road. Every night the Newc.o.c.ks took a shower and stumbled to bed, their backs and legs and arms and hands stiff, blistered and sunburned.

And then Sat.u.r.day. All day a guard sat on each gun platform at the corners of the fence and we had the run of the yard. The Building reverberated with whoops and yells. We let off steam. We blew our tops. Dirty clothes were flung over the fence beside the kitchen and clean ones taken off the pegged board where they had been hung by the Laundry Boy.

Everyone shaved, combed his hair, strolled about barefooted to give his feet a chance to breathe, glorious in our fresh, clean, wrinkled clothes. The wallet industry boomed; floats and backs, side pockets and liners cut out of sheepskins and calf skins, glued with rubber cement, punched and laced and then shipped out to the Free World.

But there was still extra energy to spare. Wrestling matches were staged periodically, the two combatants rolling over the floors and banging against the frames of the bunks, each one trying to take the pants off the other one, the victor galloping up and down the Building waving the trophy in the air as the shamefaced and bare-a.s.sed loser pursued him.

Outside on the lawn there might be boxing. Inside there was certainly a c.r.a.p game in the shower stall and a poker game at the table. Radios blared out at full volume. In the middle of the floor two Chain Men would be jitterbugging, barefooted and barechested, their feet leaping and turning this way and that as their shackles jingled frantically over the floor boards, tinkling with a frenzied joy. And as the Chain Men did their dance, others stood around and clapped their hands in rhythm to the mad, jazzy sounds.