Cool Hand Luke Page 3

  We were working quickly now, knowing for sure just how far we would have to go, anxious to knock off and get our beans. But as we drew closer we could hear singing coming from the church. Since today was Thursday it must have been a practice session for the choir. A tinny piano could be heard and a banjo and what was probably a trumpet. The voices were strident and hoarse, quavering in and out of harmony as they urgently pleaded and cajoled the Almighty with their gospel rhythms of passive ecstasy.

  Drawing abreast of the parked trucks, the yo-yos lost their enthusiasm. We waited for the signal, reluctant to go beyond our food. Aimlessly we shuffled through the thick, hot sand, cutting away at nothing, mowing an invisible lawn.

  Boss Godfrey walked up and down, casually swinging his Stick. Eventually he dug into his watch pocket with deliberate, clumsy fingers. Then he growled out:

  Aw right. Let’s eat them beans.

  Back came the fierce, unanimous cry:

  Yes SUH!

  Breaking formation we slowly herded across the road, waddling through the thick sand of the church yard towards our dinner. We threw down our tools, lit up a fast smoke, got a plate and stood in line, kneeling down beside the bean pot as Stupid Blondie served up a brick of soggy corn bread and poured molasses over it and Onion Head ladled out the watery boiled white beans.

  But our faces were solemn as we stood in line, our heads turned towards the small rectangle of weather-beaten cardboard that had been inserted in one of the church windows to replace a broken pane. And as we each bent over for our rations we knelt in a kind of pagan genuflection. This was sacred ground to us and making us eat here was a deliberate act of heresy. For this was the very spot where they finally caught up with Dragline and with his buddy Cool Hand Luke.

  5

  AFTER WE FINISHED OUR BEANS WE sprawled in huddled groups in the shade of the scrub oaks. Rabbit had brought all our shirts and jackets from the cage truck and piled them on the ground. We sorted through the heap, identifying our own things by the big black numbers printed on the back and spreading them out like blankets. I got up and waded through the sand to get a drink from the water bucket and then I flopped down to take off the heavy, metal-shod State shoes and examine the latest cuts inflicted by my yo-yo. I massaged my feet and scratched the ant bites. The sweat and the dirt of the day had made mud inside my shoes, my feet shiny and smooth from the callouses worn by bare leather. Then I lay back and lit my pipe, using the shoes for a pillow and wriggling my toes in the air.

  The others were dipping corn bread in the bean juice and the molasses remaining on their plates. Rubbing their spoons in the sand and putting them back in their pockets, they returned the plates to Onion Head who stacked them in the boxes. But I lay back and closed my eyes, listening to Blondie sharpening his yo-yo with the file from the tool truck and listening to the drone and accents of Dragline’s voice as he started another story.

  I lay there sucking on my pipe, pretending that I was never going to have to get up. The sand under my back felt like a tropical beach. Or like the thick pile carpet of a penthouse boudoir. I listened to the roar and the swish of the traffic going by on the road and I thought of those better days to come, of that time when I would at last be free to resume my life of secret poetry, bizarre crimes, nocturnal adventures scattered here and there.

  As I swatted at a horse fly that buzzed around my face my eyes opened, then fluttered and closed again. Through the blur of my eyelashes I could see the watchtower on the other side of the road, the ladders and beams zigzagging up out of the ground. The gospel singers were still praying and chanting. And I knew that hidden eyes were watching me from the windows of heaven’s back porch.

  Out of the murmur of voices I could hear Dragline’s loud, sing-song bravura going on and on:

  So a few days later ah met that there same son of a bitch. Ah met up wif him in a bar out on Flagler Street, see? Right away he says, “Let bygones be bygones. Come have a beer.” So ah says, “O.K.” Ah’m gonna play it slick, see? He says, “You ain’t mad no more are yuh?” And ah says, “Naw. Ah ain’t mad.” So we sits at the bar and has a beer. But then the waitress went struttin‘ by and he turns his haid aroun’ to eyeball at her ass and when he does ah takes mah bottle and POW! Ah lets him have it. Man, ah’m tellin‘ yuh. The bottle breaks over his haid. This son of a bitch falls on the floor. Everybody’s hollerin’. And then you know what? You know what? That mammy jammer got right up off’n the floor and beat the livin‘ shit outta me right there. But ah kin tell yuh this much though. That there was a big son of a bitch.

  But there was nothing ordinary about this particular bullshit session. Dragline was only Loudtalking for the benefit of the Free Men. His voice faltered, stopped and then mumbled on. Then he interrupted himself to swear at Blondie.

  Hey, Stupid! You got the nick outta mah yo-yo yet?

  Blondie was still down on his knees, the blade of the yo-yo on the top of the bread box and the handle braced between his thighs. Carefully he rubbed the file along the cutting edge, testing it with his thumb, meticulously taking off the wire edge on the back of the blade. Satisfied, he went over and handed it to Dragline who inspected the edge with squinted eyes and a scowl. Then Babalugats got into the act.

  Hey, Blondie. What about me? I helped out too.

  Come on. What is this? The Slow Con? Yo’ll think ah’m stupid or somethin‘.

  Never mind that. Shut up and sharpen my damn yo-yo.

  Hell no. Why should ah?

  Cause you’re chicken shit if you don’t, that’s why.

  A w w w. O.K. Give it here. But it ain’t fair.

  Why ain’t it? You got a real good snake hide today, didn’t you?

  Blondie went back to the bread box and began to sharpen another yo-yo, the file rubbing against the steel with a coarse, monotonous rhythm.

  Again I shut my eyes and listened to the sounds around me. The Bull Gang was thoughtful and subdued today. There were no jokes, no playing the Dozens, the density of the usual happy bullshit extremely thin. Feet were shifted in the dust. From time to time there was only the sly rattling of a chain in the hot and sticky air. The file rubbed and sharpened. Matches were struck. The water dipper banged against the edge of the bucket and in a few seconds there was the splat of the rest of the drink being tossed out on the ground. Here and there was a murmured voice talking of sex, drink, crime, parole. And behind us I could hear the traffic swishing along as you and yours continued on your journey south.

  Then I turned my head and looked over to where the Walking Boss had his tarpaulin. Boss Godfrey was lying on his back, his arms folded under his head, his hat on top of his chest, his Stick at his side. But his face was the same. Instead of his eyes all I could see were the two small mirrors of his glasses and the shallow blue reflections of a pale and cloudy sky. For all I knew he was watching every move we made. On the other hand, he might have been sound asleep.

  I could still hear the music coming from the church. Once I saw a black face peering around the edge of the window jamb. It withdrew and then appeared again, the white eyeballs clearly rolling from side to side. A few minutes later the music changed, becoming a deep spiritual sung with improvised harmonies, a mournful groan dragging towards the Infinite until a high, clear tenor began to separate itself, pleading and cajoling that God on high.

  In the center of the Bull Gang sat Dragline, leaning on one arm, one leg stretched out straight, his other knee bent upright. Casually he smoked his cigarette, his eyes squinted, his gaze fixed on nothing at all. His face was relaxed into that affable, sleepy expression of a hound with the same sad lines angling down along the sides of his nose to become lost in the flabbiness of his fat, wide cheeks. Dragline’s hair is thin and “whiteheaded.” His eyes are pale blue, his big, bulging nose a continuation of his sloping forehead. His fat lips sag loosely forward, shapeless and obscene.

  Between his ankles a heavy chain snaked through the dust, polished and shiny from being deliberately dragged day after
day through sand and clay and over concrete roads. Dragline doesn’t wear the usual paraphernalia of a Chain Man, the straps and strings that keep the ankle rings high up on their calves. Instead, he drags his chain, assisting the wearing process by walking along the roads as much as he can, tinkling out an iron melody wherever he goes. By now the center links are extremely thin, worn down to almost nothing after eleven months of hard use. Because when the Captain first put the shackles on Dragline he was told he would have to wear them until they fell off.

  Dragline is one of the big ones, weighing about two hundred and twenty with massive shoulders, arms and chest and a very heavy, protruding belly. Although not yet thirty he is absolutely toothless. The night of his arrest the detectives in Miami handcuffed his wrists and hung him over the top of a door. Then they worked on him with a piece of garden hose. But as soon as they took him down and his hands were free, Dragline took a swing at one of them, catching him right alongside the bridge of his nose and breaking the bone. Within seconds Drag was overwhelmed and knocked to the floor with blackjacks. Then they really gave it to him, working him over with their feet until finally one of the Dicks rammed the heel of his shoe into Drag’s mouth, kicking and grinding until it was a toothless, bleeding, cursing and screaming hole.

  Like all the outstanding characters of the Camp, he had to earn his nickname. When the Walking Boss brought in the squad after his first day out on the road, the Captain asked how he had made out with the new man. Boss Godfrey’s answer was loud enough for the rest of us to hear.

  Ain’t never seen nothin‘ like it, Cap’n. He can shovel more mud than any six men put together. He’s like a human dragline.

  But once upon a time, his name was Clarence Slidell.

  He was a country boy from Clewiston who went barefooted and wore faded dungarees to school. The girls laughed at his big nose and his fat belly and to get even he pulled their hair and knocked the books out of their arms. After school his father made him hoe corn and pick snap beans until dark. On Saturday nights his father got drunk and beat him with his belt for neglecting his chores.

  Clarence; the country bumpkin, the buffoon, the brawler. He spent his early years in and out of fights, jails, barrooms, automobile accidents, love affairs and courtrooms, paying fines to the city and county authorities as regularly as you make payments on your mortgage.

  Eventually he learned a few angles while doing time at the county farm, getting his education in the same way as the rest of us, absorbing the techniques, the warnings and the inspiration from the conversations of our peers. So in spite of his bulk and his clumsiness Clarence became a burglar, eventually specializing in motels. His Kilroy nose used to peer over the window sill as he watched the tourists go to bed. When they were asleep he would press his fingers against the window screen to keep it from screeching as he slowly forced an ice pick through the mesh and flicked open the latch. After easing the screen open he brought out his personal invention, a collapsible aluminum pole made of telescoping sections with a rubber tipped grabble at the end operated by a fine wire. It was like those grappling poles that grocers use to reach the top shelf. Clarence had it made in a machine shop in a large city several hundred miles away and then spent long hours out in the woods practicing with it. With this contraption he could actually open closets and bureau drawers, skillfully fishing for wallets, snatching purses, watches, a pair of pants from a chair, a pair of shoes from under the bed.

  But then that cool, sweet, star-studded evening arrived. He was walking down a lonely country lane meandering through a twenty acre strawberry patch. Without any warning at all, the cops stepped out from behind the trees with their flashlights and caught Dragline standing there with six fur coats in his arms.

  Where you goin‘ with them coats, Boy?

  Where? Ah ain’t gonna tell yuh, where. But what ah’m gonna do is give ‘em to mah gal friends.

  Six fur coats for one gal?

  Not one gal. Six gals. A guy’s gotta have more’n one gal don’t he?

  But the cops took him in just the same.

  And three gigantic detectives with Panama hats and pastel Palm Beach suits came in to ask him a few questions.

  Today Dragline sat there in the churchyard with the ease and bearing of the captive monarch of a savage tribe. He was the very focus of the Bull Gang, the epicenter of a circle of dirty, exhausted men, surrounded by a sprinkled perimeter of stripes, eyes, sharp blades and naked muscles.

  Dragline—our very own.

  It was only a matter of time. Everyone knew it was coming. We all knew that someone would ask the question and that Dragline would have to answer it. Finally it was Cottontop who broke the embarrassed silence.

  Hey Drag? Drag? Is this here the place? Ah mean. Right here?

  Dragline was rolling a cigarette. He nodded his head just once before wetting the edge of the folded paper with his tongue.

  Loudmouth Steve chimed in, unable to control his adolescent enthusiasm and his lack of discretion.

  Right here? Inside that church yonder? That time when you and Luke took off and run?

  Yeah. Yeah, Mister Steve. Right here.

  How did it happen, Dragline? asked Stupid Blondie.

  Aw. It’s a long fuckin‘ story. ’Sides. You know it already anyhow.

  And then Onion Head broke in.

  But we don’t know all that happened, Dragline. And some guys weren’t even here then.

  Come on, Drag, urged Cottontop. Come on and tell us.

  Muttering under his breath, Dragline gave a few last shaping strokes of his fingers on the cigarette. Then he struck a match and pouted his lips as he leaned his face into the flame. Inhaling deeply, he slowly and thoughtfully let the bitter smoke escape from his nose and mouth in controlled wisps.

  Luke? Yeah. That son of a bitch—. If he’d a-listened to me like ah tole him—

  Dragline glanced at the Walking Boss, his voice dropping and becoming a murmur, his eyes flitting around the church yard at the ghosts flickering in the patches of sunlight and shade. Inside the shack the choir was just hitting its stride, beginning to warm up their gospel mood.

  Mumbling at first, his words slowly grew bolder as he got into the story. Accompanied by the background of folk music and the sounds of the traffic, of rattling chains and sharpened metal, Dragline sat there today and recited the song and the story of Cool Hand Luke.

  6

  BUT ACTUALLY DRAGLINE BEGAN TELLING the story somewhere in the middle. Or at least it was the middle as far as I was concerned. Because I was really the one who first became aware of Luke’s existence. I recognized his heroic aspects long before he even arrived at our camp. I sensed his poetry. And I knew that he was coming to save us all.

  His arrival was heralded well in advance on the front page of the Tampa Daily Times. The image of Luke’s face was borne on the wind to land right there in the ditch, his handsome features crinkled and gray, his somber eyes staring out of the weeds to contemplate the sunny skies above.

  It had been an unusual day, the Bull Gang assigned to one of those odd chores that the Captain invents from time to time to keep us occupied. We had had a very long ride that morning, all the way up to Mineola. Then we were lined up on both sides of Route Number Twenty-five from the pavement to the edge of the right of way. At Boss Godfrey’s signal we moved forward, bending over to pick up every scrap of trash, every cigarette package, beer can, bottle and paper bag. We walked and we bent over and we dumped our handfuls of trash in regular piles for the trustees to burn as they followed along. It was a long, hard day at full gallop, the guards following along beside and behind us. By the time we were ordered to load up into the cage truck we had reached the Polk County line, eighteen miles away.

  But along about eleven o‘clock an open red Jaguar had come roaring by, the driver wearing horn-rimmed glasses and a beret, turning his head to grin back at us as he deliberately tossed a newspaper over his shoulder. The pages separated in the wind and tumbled loosely along th
e shoulder of the road, rustling and crinkling as it followed the direction of the departing car. And it was my luck to be the one to come across the front page, cursing my delivery boy, bending over to grab it up along with my other souvenirs of the tourist season. But then my eye caught the headline:

  War Hero Becomes Parking Meter Bandit

  I hesitated. This was a new type of crime to me and I was immediately intrigued. Quickly I got hold of the other sheets, folded them together as best I could without falling behind the advancing line and held the paper up in the air as I called out to the nearest guard,

  Boss Paul! Puttin‘ it in my pocket here!

  Aw right, Sailor. Put it in your pocket.

  At noon we had our beans in an orange grove. I put the newspaper in proper order and stretched it out on the ground, reading it as I ate. Some copy editor had played up the “before and after” angle. Two photographs were printed side by side; the one a formal military portrait, the kind we all sent home during the war, face scrubbed, tanned and shiny, uniform correct, hat squared, chest out and bedecked with bits of colored ribbon and metal badges—the other the picture of a drunk peering through the bars, hair dishevelled, shirt open and dirty. But instead of sticking to his role of the Scowling Criminal, the ex-soldier was smiling directly into the camera, one eye closed in a sly wink.

  I read the story and then read it again, translating it by sight as I scanned the lines, filling in the obvious gaps, shrinking the exaggerations, deducting the halftruths and the prejudices, correcting the misinformation about things I knew of and trying to imagine the truth of the things I didn’t, the facts that were unstated, the events that were undescribed, the elements that were ignored or those taken out of context and slanted by clever wording to give a predetermined impression.