Cool Hand Luke Page 2

  Drinkin‘ it up, here. Boss!

  O.K. Drink it up.

  Behind us or beside us strolled the Walking Boss, idly swinging his hickory cane. As usual, he gave us no sign whatever of his thoughts or his mood. Sometimes he would sit on the running board of one of the trucks or sit inside the cab. And sometimes he would light up a cigar and walk within a fragrant and inspired cloud, pulling out his enormous pocket watch and putting it back while we swung our yo-yos and looked down at our feet.

  The time went on. Occasionally there would be a call.

  Pourin‘ it out down here—Boss!

  O.K. Pour it out.

  Making sure that all the guards had heard, the man would go down to the bottom of the slope and drop to his knees with his back turned to the road, his shoulders slumped in a humble attitude, ignoring the passing Free World while genuflecting over the puddle of piss which slowly spread between his knees. Then—

  Gettin‘ back here, Boss Brown!

  All right. Git on back.

  Not long before Smoking Period there was a sudden yell somewhere up near the head of the line. I could see Stupid Blondie up there hitting at the ground with his yo-yo and yelling—

  Snake! Snake!

  The whole gang came alive, men dodging here and there in a melee of swinging tools, trying to stop the rattler skimming through the grass. But no one could go more than three or four feet from his position, each one guarding his own area and flailing away as the snake zigzagged first one way and then another. Once it almost got away under the barbed wire that bordered the edge of the right of way. But Dragline was bringing up the rear, working along the fence. Normally a Chain Man has the privilege of working on top of the shoulder where the walking is much easier. But of course Dragline was in a very deep mood today, suffering from a bad case of the Black Ass, remembering all the things that had happened on this road and remembering all the things that had happened before that.

  When Dragline saw the snake heading his way he ran a few steps forward to head it off but his shackles caught on a palmetto root at the very moment that he swung his yo-yo. He lost his balance and fell to his knees, his yo-yo hitting the ground, sending up a geyser of dry sand and then bouncing off a strand of barbed wire, making it vibrate with a dull hum. Dragline tried to get up and swing again but the rattler had already altered course, heading back into the thicker grass at the bottom of the ditch.

  Cottontop blocked its path and the snake swiftly contracted itself into a coil, his head pulled back, its rattles buzzing away as Cottontop yelled out—

  Ah got‘iml Ah got ’im!

  Cottontop braced himself, nervously advanced a step, faltered as the buzzing grew more violent. Then he swung the yo-yo with both hands like the desperate reflex of a batter trying to hit a low foul. But he missed and ducked back just as the rattler struck, its body stretching out about two feet, its jaws agape. The snake went back into its coil as Cottontop braced himself again. In the meantime everybody was yelling, the convicts and the guards as well—

  Git ‘im Cottontop. Git ’im.

  Git ‘im hell. Bite’im on the ass.

  Watch it Cottontop. Don’t git yourself snake-bit.

  He ain’t gonna git bit. He cain’t git bit. A snake’s got better sense’n to bite a Chain Ganger. With all the bean juice in Cottontop’s blood, it’d be the snake that’d git poisoned. He’d jes curl hisself up and die on the spot.

  But Stupid Blondie was wilder than all the rest, pulling his cap off and throwing it down on the ground.

  Cottontop! You be careful now! Don’t cut him up too much. You’ll ruin his hide! You hear? That’s my hide now. Don’t forget. I was the first to see him. I called “snake” first.

  Again Cottontop prepared to swing and then flinched. The snake struck again, recovered, hissed and rattled. Cottontop stumbled backwards, came in again and swung. There was a wild thrashing in the grass, big loops of black spotted yellow flexing and coiling as Cottontop yelled out—

  Ah got ‘iml Ah got ’iml Cut his haid smack dab off!

  You didn’t cut up his hide, did yuh?

  Then the Walking Boss, Jim the Trustee and Rabbit came up the road from the tool truck. Jim came down the ditch slope to where Cottontop was standing and picked up the still-jerking snake by the tail. It was a Diamond Back. About six feet long. As Jim started back up the slope he made a movement as if to throw the snake at Rabbit who shrank back, his face grimaced with fear. Boss Paul smiled and called over from across the road.

  What’s the matter, Rabbit? Don’t they have no rattlers up in Canada? Or is it too cold up there?

  And Rabbit answered with the imitation accent he has acquired, using the fawning inflections that are prescribed for a Waterboy, for a Yankee and a Foreigner.

  Yeah Boss. We got‘im aw right. Lot’s of ’em. But we made a deal. Ah leaves them alone and they leaves me alone.

  Cottontop was still explaining to everybody how he outmaneuvered the snake. Jim had already started to skin it with the pocketknife that trustees are allowed to carry. Dragline stayed in his proper place, examining the edge of his yo-yo with a frown.

  Damn your ass, Blondie. You made me nick my yo-yo. Ah oughtta make you give me a cold drink tonight.

  How come I gotta give you a cold drink, Drag? You didn’t kill it. It was Cottontop who killed it.

  Ah know that, stupid. But ah nicked mah gawd damned yo-yo tryin‘.

  Cottontop was all excited at his potential reward.

  Ah want a Pepsi, Blondie. Hear? A Pepsi.

  Don’t forget mine, Blondie, said Jim, looking up from his work. But Dragline wasn’t through.

  Ah oughtta hire me a lawyer and sue you, Blondie. For damages. Ah just sharpened mah yo-yo yesterday.

  Aw, come on Dragline. Ah’m sorry. Ah couldn’t help it.

  Sorry? Yeah. Ah knows you’re sorry. You’re the sorriest thing ah ever saw. But eff’n you don’t give me a cold drink the least you can do is sharpen up mah yo-yo at Smoke Time. After all, you git to keep the hide. It’ll make about six good wallet backs. At least. And here ah ain’t even got a lousy cold drink to mah name.

  Aw. All right, Drag. Ah’ll sharpen it up for you at Bean Time.

  By then the guards had relaxed, their grips no longer tight on their gun stocks. But we knew better than to go too far. There was a few minutes more of uninhibited talking and gestures and then the work was resumed, everyone taking his place without a word and beginning to swing his yo-yo, the Bull Gang slowly moving past the Walking Boss who stood on the shoulder of the road, leaning on his cane.

  For another hour we walked along, swinging our tools back and forth, the traffic roaring along beside us. As usual, I was somewhere in the middle, lost in my daydreams about the past, once again going over all the things that I knew about Cool Hand Luke. And yet at the same time, more than anything else, I was probably worrying about the blister that was beginning on the side of my thumb, reaching out with one hand to slice away some milkweeds and then on the return stroke changing hands to trim a clump of grass close to the ground.

  By the sun and by practice, we could tell it was nearly ten o‘clock. Eyes began to question. The yo-yos began to waver. Heads slyly turned towards Dragline, who has a phenomenal ability to guess the time, searching his attitude for some sign.

  The Walking Boss strolled along the edge of the road, looking at the passing cars, lazily swinging his Stick. With a slow and idle movement he pulled at the braided leather fob and looked down at his pocket watch. Slowly he stuffed it back and continued strolling. After a long pause, lazily, with a deep, gutteral growl, he drawled out,

  Aw right. Let’s smoke ‘em up.

  Back came the reply with a sharp, high note of exuberance resounding from all directions—

  Yes suh!

  Eagerly we dug into our sweaty pockets and took out the battered, rusty pipe tobacco cans that we all carry on our hips. But inside is the sharp and bitter, iodineflavored State tobacco that is issued to us onc
e a week. Pressed down on top is a book of cigarette papers and a small box of wooden matches. Some of us squatted on our haunches, West Florida style. Some of us sat, knelt or lay down flat on our backs. We rolled our smokes or stuffed our pipes, the clever ones always keeping two or three rolled up in advance in their tobacco cans so that no time at all would be lost. The wealthy ones didn’t have to bother since they always smoke Free World tailor-mades.

  For fifteen minutes we rested, drinking in the smoke. Again and again we went over the details of the adventure with the Diamond Back, describing every aspect to each other, every gesture, expression and emotion. We envied Stupid Blondie’s luck, ridiculed Cottontop’s idiocy, poked mild and careful fun at Dragline’s tripping over his own shackles. And then again we picked up the threads of our stories and our lies exactly where we had left off, as though we hadn’t been interrupted by several hours of labor in the sun.

  But again there was a difference. There was a certain restraint in our voices, occasional glances of respect and awe in Dragline’s direction.

  Soon we felt restless. We knew the time had come, our eyes discreetly following the Walking Boss, waiting for that gesture. When he reached for his watch we all tensed. But he put it back again, unconcerned, looking off at we knew not what. And then when we least expected it, his voice growled out to us, deep, slow and lazy, cadenced and intoned like a song.

  Aw—right—. It’s that time.

  Stiffly we stood up, lighting that last smoke we are permitted to carry and snapping shut the lids of our cans and putting them away. Stretching, making the first few, meaningless swings at nothing to limber up, mechanically our arms resumed the rhythmic swing of the day, the sweat again beginning to flow, our eyes once again fixed on that spot just in front of our toes.

  3

  BOSS GODFREY STROLLED ALONG THE EDGE of the pavement swinging his Walking Stick, a heavy cane made of hickory with which he points when giving orders and makes those little gestures that reveal to us his mood and with which, from time to time, he beats us.

  Boss Godfrey is much bigger than any of us. He is nearly six feet six inches tall and weighs at least two hundred and forty pounds. Like the guards, he is dressed in the same faded green uniform of the State, a large spot of sweat showing between his shoulder blades and under each arm in a larger ring of dried salt. And like the guards, he also wears a cowboy hat, weather-beaten and out of shape with stains of hair oil showing around the band. But their hats are all various shades of gray. His hat is black.

  Slowly he walked along the edge of the road from the head of the line to the rear and then back again. Gesturing with his Walking Stick, he would order the flags and the trucks to be moved up by the trustees. Occasionally he would mutter a command. Once he pointed his Stick right at me and then aimed it towards the rear of the gang.

  Sailor. Drop back and catch that clump of wire grass over yonder.

  Yes suh, Boss. Boss Kean! Boss Paull Gettin‘ back here and catchin’ this here wire grass!

  Aw right, Sailor. Go back and git it.

  After doing what I was told I walked back to my place. Boss Godfrey was again ambling towards the head of the line, his back turned to me, swinging his Stick from side to side and puffing on a cigar. Then he let go with a standard bean fart. A little one. The hungry kind. And once again I wondered about Boss Godfrey and the other guards, speculating about their reality as human beings. But all I could do was observe them askance and at a distance, assuming that they must respond to the influences of food and rest, the state of their bowels and their loves. The well-being of the Free Men is something we convicts always worry about. Just as at one time we were quite concerned with the moods of our judges. Yet to us the Free Men must always remain as flat forms, shallow silhouettes cut out and pasted against the wall of the sky.

  There are the rumors. Boss Godfrey used to be a Greyhound bus driver. His family was one of the pioneers of the Florida Territory even before it was taken over from Spain. His wife ran away. He squandered away a large cattle inheritance from his father. His girlfriend is a waitress in a juke joint near Vero Beach.

  But we really don’t know. We don’t know how old he is or where he lives. We don’t know where he’s from nor what he thinks or believes. All we know is that he is beginning to get a pot belly and wears sideburns and is a fantastic marksman with a rifle. He has little wrinkles on his forehead and on the back of his dark brown neck. And probably in the corners of his eyes. Yet we don’t even know that.

  The other guards have eyes of men. They have isosceles triangles of blue fire. Hollow eyes of iron. Brooding rips and tears and glints of green and brown. But the Walking Boss seems to have no eyes at all, keeping them completely covered with opaque sunglasses, the kind that have a brightly polished surface of one-way mirrors.

  Boss Godfrey reached the head of the advancing column. He turned around and stood a moment, watching us. Slowly he began walking back. With a covert glance I looked up from my work as he drew close to me. And there in his eyes I could see the reduced twin reflections of the Bull Gang, the guards strung out with their shotguns at various angles—over their shoulders, at high port, dangling in their hands or cradled in the crook of one arm—and we convicts herded together in the middle, our heads lowered and our eyes averted, our yo-yos flashing from side to side.

  4

  LATER IN THE MORNING THE COUNTRYSIDE around us began to change. Houses became scarcer. Marsh grass became more common, growing out of small ponds on both sides of us. The road was very straight, built on a high causeway of fill with steep shoulders that dropped down into drainage ditches overgrown with bushes. Our yo-yos had very little to do here and the Bull Gang began to move more rapidly over the ground, cutting down the occasional clumps of dog fennels and patches of weeds and then going on at a fast walk, moving in single file along the narrow tops of the shoulders.

  Off to our right, coming out of the scattered secondgrowth pines and scrub oaks, we saw the row of poles supporting the arcs of high tension power lines. Later we could see the embankment of the railroad tracks. It drew closer to the road and then began to follow it on a parallel course.

  It had been a long time since we had last worked on the Rattlesnake Road but we recognized the landmarks. On the left there was a small house all by itself built out of pale green stucco in the pseudo-Mediterranean style that was common during the great Florida land boom of the twenties. Then we saw the creek up ahead, the fish camp, the wooden drawbridge and its sister, the railroad trestle built of heavy, black pilings and creosoted cross-timbers.

  For a moment we hesitated at the foot of the bridge until all the men had gathered together. At a signal from Boss Godfrey we started across, following the guard who took the lead, walking backwards a few paces and then turning around, twisting his neck to look over his shoulder. We followed along, herded by the guards behind us.

  On the other side of the creek the railroad began to curve away from the road, bending away behind the Negro general store, an old and dilapidated wooden shack. Beyond the store was the railroad station consisting of a bare wooden platform. On the other side was a nameless, unincorporated village of about a dozen unpainted shacks with rusty, corrugated roofs.

  Again the country began to change, getting dry and sandy, scrub oaks growing in small groves mixed with patches of scrawny-looking pines. About a half mile beyond the bridge the road began to curve to the right, following the right of way of the Atlantic Coast Line. Slowly we worked our way around the bend. And then up ahead of us, emerging out of the trees that blocked the horizon, we could see the watchtower of the forest rangers.

  Nothing was out of the ordinary except that everything was deliberately ordinary. Rabbit was ahead of us, carrying the red warning flag further forward like an advance scout carrying the guidon of a squad of troops. Boss Kean shifted his double barreled shotgun from his left shoulder to his right shoulder. Boss Paul held the repeater in the crook of his arm, looking at the Bull Gang and smil
ing. Boss Godfrey relit his cigar and strolled along the edge of the road, swinging his cane by the handle with one finger.

  But softly, with the gentleness of grass fragments floating over our heads to settle down on our shoulders, there was a single word among the whisperings of tools slashing through the weeds, the scuff of footsteps and the rattling of chains, the traffic swishing along beside us.

  Luke.

  We could tell it was nearly noon by the position of the sun and by the feeling in our stomachs. There wasn’t much grass to cut and we kept moving at a comfortable pace, our yo-yos making easy, idle motions, swishing away at little or nothing as we herded down the road.

  Up ahead of us we could see the church. It still looked the same; a square frame shack supported on concrete pillars about a foot and a half above the ground, the paint nearly gone, the metal roof showing streaks of rust, the walls buckled and out of line. On one side of the building was a leaning brick chimney. There was a steeple in front but it had no bell, the hexagonal peak covered with weathered cedar shingles, dried out and split by the years and by the sun. On one side of the church yard was a tiny cemetery. On the other side, under some trees, were a few picnic benches made of old, sagging boards laid over two stacks of cement building blocks. The front yard was of loose, dry sand and there was a jalopy Ford in the middle of it, the paint gone, one fender missing.

  The Walking Boss spoke to the trustees and they drove off with the trucks. We could see them park across the road from the church. Rabbit and Jim began to get things ready for Bean Time, stretching out the tarpaulins in the best of the shady spots under the scrub oak trees next to the church yard. Beside the tarps they put the lunch buckets of the Free Men and the crates which they used for seats. In the center of the ring of stations set up for the guards, they stretched out a smaller tarp, just big enough for the bean pot, the wooden chest holding the corn bread, the jar of cut-back molasses and the orange crate holding the big aluminum plates. And they started a fire and put on a can of water to boil coffee for the Free Men.