Cool Hand Luke Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Copyright Page

  1

  EVERY MORNING WE COUNT OFF THROUGH the gate in single file, our voices echoing out into the darkness and into the glare of the spotlights on the corners of the fence. Once again the squads are reformed and counted as we stand at a loose and sleepy attention, greeted by a new day of trucks, guns, the hounds barking from the dog pens. At the signal we load up into the cage truck, scrambling in quickly for if we are slow the last man is certain to be kicked in the ass by the Walking Boss. It is still dark and misty, the dawn barely begun. The dawn is gray; as gray as this iron world in which we live.

  After all the trucks are started the whole convoy begins to pull out, bouncing and clanging over the rutted clay road that leads through the orange grove that surrounds our camp. And as we are jarred and shaken through the darkness amid the squeaking of metal and the roaring of motors, the fruit on the orange trees goes speed- ing by like the globes of distant planets dangling in outer space.

  The Bull Gang is always put in the cage truck. We can look between the bars of the gate and watch the headlights of the trucks behind us as they illuminate the leaves and the fruit and dazzle our sleepy eyes. And we can see the men of the other squads huddled together in heaps beneath pieces of old canvas, trying to break the force of the chill morning wind. All the other squads are put in the back of open dump trucks behind each of which is towed a small guard trailer with an eighteen-foot tongue in which the Free Men sit to prevent anyone from jumping off. Sitting behind the windshields of their black and yellow, twowheeled chariots, the Free Men shiver in jackets and coats, their hands in their pockets, their shotguns held in the crooks of their arms and aimed carelessly upwards at the stars.

  And then the miracle. Without even pulling a trigger a star is being shot out of the sky. Through the bars we watch it burning, questioning its similarities with this caged world on wheels as the round pale orbs of our faces are softly illuminated by our own cigarettes.

  We doze. The dream is still clinging to us with a heavy glow. Feet are shifted. Chains rattle. Work shoes scrape on the metal floor which is bare and shiny from years of being polished by leather and fine gray Florida sand. In order to relieve a cramp, someone shifts his shoulder, the movement felt all the way down the line, transmitted through a series of tightly packed arms and shoulders wrapped in the coarse gray cloth of shirts and jackets bleached and faded by the years. But as we sit here squeezed together, we are also huddling for warmth, for some sort of reassurance and understanding which we know we can only hope to get from one of our own kind.

  Cigarettes are silently rolled and smoked. We cross and recross our legs, casually and debonair, the white vertical stripes on the outside of our pant legs barely visible in the gloom, dimmed by the filth and the encrusted salt of the sweat of yesterday’s labor.

  When the convoy reaches the paved road the trucks begin to separate, going in opposite directions and turning off again at other junctions as each squad is taken to the different work assignments scattered all over the county. Some of us in the Bull Gang peer out between the bars, noting the direction in which we are headed and trying to guess our job for the day. Eventually, after a half hour or so, the cage truck pulls over to the side of the road as we fumble with our makings to roll up and light one last smoke. The guards dismount from the tool truck behind us and move off to their positions. When they are ready, the Walking Boss unlocks the gate and counts us as we get out and go over to the tool truck where Rabbit the Water Boy hands down the shovels, the bush axes or the yo-yos. One by one we clamber down into the ditch, stiff and clumsy at first but gradually loosening up as we go, the sun just rising over the horizon as we begin another day.

  Slowly the mists begin to rise after the chill and the dampness are driven away by the sun. Later it begins to get hot and a man will pause, yelling out the prescribed formula to all the guards:

  Takin‘ it off here, Boss!

  From all around us comes the permissive echo.

  Yeah.

  All right.

  Go on, take it off.

  The man drops his tool and strips off his shirt and jacket, leaving them on the edge of the road where Rabbit will pick them up and put them away in the cage truck. His tanned skin shining in its sweat, the man resumes his work, the dull monotony of the day dragging on as he digs and chops and carries.

  The hours pass. But we are strictly forbidden to know the time, deliberately kept in constant suspense. There is always that haunting question. How much longer is it until Smoking Period? Until Bean Time? And how much closer are we to that Golden Day—the day of parole or release or, to some of us, the right moment for an escape?

  But in spite of everything we have learned how to work with automatic unconcern, quite unaware of our own fatigue, of the fierceness of the sun, of the mosquitoes and flies. For endless hours we whisper to each other, keeping an eye open for the Walking Boss who is strolling up and down the road idly swinging his stick. He knows perfectly well that we are talking but is usually willing to tolerate our little sins if we keep them within certain limits. Our work must never falter, our lips must never move and we must dummy up whenever he approaches, slipping back to the diaphanous silence of our dream.

  During Smoking Period we huddle together on the slope of the ditch, telling each other all over again the long details of our former lives. And those lives, long since dead, sound like a distant melody played on a muted saxophone. We relate the history of our adventures, our sentimental agonies. We talk about the girls we laid, the whiskey we drank, the money we stole. And we tell the story of how we almost got away with it all.

  Chief will tell another of his legendary lies. Ears will recite the saga of his boyhood when his father put him in a reform school after his mother died. But only his closest friends will ever hear about his young, attractive stepmother. And only once or twice has he ever described the exact details of that drunken night when he staggered home with a pistol and shot his father dead.

  Once again Koko will describe how he got three years for burglarizing $115,000 worth of jewels from a walled mansion in Palm Beach. But he is still breathless as he tells how he escaped from a camp near Lake Okeechobee and ended up with four more years for stealing a pair of overalls from a farmhouse. And how he got another five years for swiping a Model T Ford in which to make a getaway.

  And Dynamite is still having that same old nightmare. Living on Death Row, the cellmate of his dreams keeps asking him with maddening repetition,

  What time is it? We go down at ten o‘clock.

  As for myself, what can I say? I too have committed my crime, the one which demonstrated my hostility towards this great, big wonderful world of ours; the one which has put me in debt to Society and which I am gradually paying off, on the installment plan. Lured by irresistible temptations and maddened by a chronic anger which had long since lost its original meaning, I too committed a felony. Does it really matt
er that mine happens to be larceny? As for my sentence, I have all the Time I need.

  And now my own face can be found among those paled by the shadowed height of the guard. I too am down there digging in the ditch while he stands with the shotgun jutting over his shoulder, hammered into the blue with a precise slant of malediction.

  So this is the Chain Gang. Among ourselves it is most often referred to as The Hard Road, as a noun and as a proper name, capitalized and sacred. In the evening you can see us driving down the highway in a long caravan of black and yellow trucks heading back to Camp. And as we go by we get down on our knees in order to get a better view, our wicked, dirty faces peering through the bars to eyeball at your Free World.

  Every night the trucks bounce over the clay road through the groves, pulling up on the asphalt apron, the guards dismounting and spreading to all sides. We wait. At the signal from the Walking Boss everyone clambers out and lines up along the sidewalk in front of the gate, standing with his back turned and his arms raised. Squad by squad we are shaken down, each man standing with his pockets turned inside out. His spoon, comb, tobacco can and change are all held in his cap which is always removed in deference to the Captain who is sitting in a rocking chair on the porch of his Office. After we are patted, rubbed and felt, the final tap on the shoulder tells us we may lower our arms.

  Deep inside the Building we can hear the Wicker Man tapping and banging away to test the floors and the walls and dragging his broom handle across the chain link wire mesh of the windows. And that staccato melody of the evening echoes far over the groves like drunken jackhammers repairing the sky.

  Another signal. The gate is swung open and we march through in single file, each man turning his head to speak over his shoulder, counting off as clearly as possible so the next man won’t misunderstand. The Yard Man stands right beside the gate and a swift kick is the cost of a mistake. And as we count our voices are different just as we are different. There are growls, yells, threats, questions, statements, murmurs—

  ONE Two three/FOUR! (five) Six?

  Once inside the gate we charge up the steps and into the Building, our songs and shouts overlapping and entangled as we run in to open lockers, to wait in line in front of the one faucet in the Building to rinse the mud off our faces, to take a quick piss in little semicircles huddled together shoulder to shoulder around the johns; two, three and even four to the bowl.

  Then we rush out again, lining up for supper at the Messhall door. But the Silent System prevails. Jammed in tight on one of the benches I sit in meditation, feeling the shoulders and arms of the men on either side of me as I eat my meal of potato stew and beans, corn bread and collards. The only sounds are the scraping of shoes on the concrete floor, the clanking of tablespoons on metal plates. After I finish I go outside and rinse my spoon under the faucet in the yard and then I put it back in my hip pocket.

  At the porch of the Building I stoop and remove my shoes, empty the contents of my pockets into my cap and get in the line which is wending its way past Carr, the convict Floorwalker. When my turn comes I hand my shoes to Carr who examines them for contraband and then throws them through the door. I turn my back and raise my arms as he pokes through the things in my cap, gives me a fast frisk and growls in my ear. Fourteen. I go through the door, pick up my shoes and repeat the number to the Wicker Man. He grumbles back at me and makes a mark. Fourteen.

  When everyone is safely tucked inside, the double doors are closed and barred. Just as the last bolt is shot home, the sun drops below the horizon.

  And we always spend our evenings at home. Ours is a world without carpets or curtains, without chairs, sinks or privacy. Yet we shave every day and brush our teeth and somehow manage to carry on lives which, although but a pale imitation of yours, still retain some of its marvels. We read the funnies and know the football scores. In subdued murmurs we gossip and argue and recite. Four of us have been permitted to own radios that whisper the latest tunes. The four johns are always busy. There are loafers, comedians, gamblers, craftsmen and students. And those who still have someone waiting for them, are writing letters home.

  So we build our Time. Each of our days is connected to the other by all sorts of personal artifacts, attached together by glue and by dream, nailed down tight by the hammering of our unanimous heels which respond to the First Bell by drumming on the floor all at once. In exactly five minutes we are ready for breakfast. The Wicker Man unlocks the outside door and then the gate to the Chute. Carr steps aside and we begin counting off, each of us twisting to speak over his shoulder. Like a key inserted in a lock, the line enters the dawn through the door to open still another day.

  2

  AND EVERY DAY IT’S THE SAME THING. EXCEPT that today there was a difference. We did the same work, felt the same sensations, exercised the same kind of talk and gesture. But the day was paced by strange silences and a deep sense of embarrassment. Noises seemed sharper. Movements were stiffer and more pronounced. And from time to time an eye would turn up, roll from left to right and then turn down again.

  This morning when we went out, the Bull Gang was put to work on what we call the Rattlesnake Road in honor of all those serpents which we have killed there, using the rawhide-skins for the wallets which we make on weekends and sell to the Free World for spending money. The Bull Gang was yo-yoing the grass on both sides of the road, the shotgun guards scattered all around us.

  But the thing was: the Rattlesnake Road leads to the old nigger church, the one across the road from the lookout tower of the forest rangers.

  To you a yo-yo would be a weed cutter, a light frame of unpainted wood with a handle fastened to an A-shaped yoke that supports a thin, straight, double-edge blade. It is swung from side to side, slashing through the weeds with vigorous forehand and backhand strokes. But to us a yo-yo is the pendulum of that great invisible clock that slowly ticks away the hours of our Time.

  And today we covered more than two miles, working in a staggered line, each man behind the next and over to one side so that the lanes of work overlapped and so that if a yo-yo slipped out of a sweaty hand it would not hit anyone. We strolled along, shaving the shoulder of the highway and the armpit of the ditch, swinging our tools back and forth in a fast but natural rhythm broken only when a clump of dog fennels or palmettos was particularly tough and a man had to hack away with both hands. Or perhaps we would come to a patch of sandspurs or Florida cactus and a man would be hit by the flying debris. Swearing under his breath, he would lower his yo-yo and pull the spines out of his back and arms but first yelling out to the nearest guard,

  Pullin‘ it out here, Boss!

  Yeah. O.K. Gator. Pull it out.

  All morning we swished along in our echelon formation like a squadron of airplanes soaring overhead through the blue, our yo-yos beating like mad propellers bearing us aloft. As always, the traffic roared right by us in both directions; the sedans and the jalopies, a farmer’s pickup, a Greyhound bus, the semi’s going by with their exhausts on high, their diesels pounding away.

  As you rolled on by, soft and upholstered in your Cadillacs, heading south towards Miami and towards Paradise just beyond, you could look out from your air conditioned comfort and see the red flag stuck in the ground with the white letters “Slow Down—Men at Work.” Then you saw a guard standing at ease with his weight on one leg, his pistol hanging low in its holster, his shotgun dangling over his shoulder. Then the black and yellow trucks, Jim the Trustee carrying the water bucket with one arm held out for balance, more guards dressed in wrinkled uniforms of forest green and cowboy hats all sweated and stained, shapeless and worn. And all eyes were focused on the staggered column of barechested men, their skin burnt black, wearing striped caps cocked at every conceivable angle and light gray pants with a white vertical stripe down the legs.

  You looked out at us through the windows, your eyes full of curiosity and disgust, your faces showing your fear. And that suited us just fine.

  A school bus went by, t
wo kids leaning out the windows and hollering something. A State-highway patrolman cruised slowly along, followed by a long line of cars, the drivers all afraid of passing around him. Later came a house trailer from Michigan, an old jeep pulling an outboard boat, three army trucks in a row, a motorcyclist and a truckload of citrus fruit.

  But we kept our eyes on the ground, absorbed in our work, for Eyeballing is punishable by being put in the Box. And we knew that today the guards were nervous. They chewed their quids and scratched their ears and rearranged their hats. They did all the things they always do. But they were watching us. They were waiting.

  Patiently we swung our tools, the grass rustling with every cut. At the end of each blurred arc of flashing steel there rose a fluttering green cloud within which we dawdled like the sleepwalkers we are, lulled by the constant swish of the passing traffic and the subtle melody tinkling from the ankles of the Chain Men.

  The hours passed. Every few hundred yards Rabbit the Waterboy would take the flag in front and walk up the road with it to stick it in the ground. Jim the Trustee would go back and bring up the flag from the rear. Then each of them would start up one of the trucks and drive it ahead to park and wait for us to catch up with our slow and ponderous advance.

  Every so often, Rabbit would fill the water bucket from the big oak barrel in the tool truck, waddling as he went down the road. He went to the Walking Boss first, who took the dipper, drank a few mouthfuls and threw the rest on the ground with a splat. Then Rabbit went to each of the guards in turn, crossing the road and struggling up and down the embankment to offer them the dipper. Then he went from one convict to another, each one putting down his yo-yo and yelling out—

  Gettin‘ a drink here, Boss!

  Yeah. Get a drink there, Bama.

  Eagerly the man would drink down the water, some of it running down his heaving chest and belly, ignored and lost in the sheen of sweat that glistened on his body and made his pants sopping wet and muddy. Again he would fill the dipper, pausing with gasping breaths. Then he put it back in the bucket and resumed his rhythmic swinging, Rabbit dodging the flashing yo-yos, moving up to the next man in line who lowered his blade, looked around him at the armed horizon and called out—