Cool Hand Luke

by Donn Pearce

  Damn, Luke! What’s the matter with you? We done bet ten whole god damn dollars that you can eat— oh, Christ Almighty! Ah hates to even think about it. That you can eat—fifty eggs. Fifty eggs, boy. Ah backed you up. Yeah. But don’t ask me why. Habit, ah reckon. You’re mah buddy. But gawd damn—damn it Luke. What’s the matter with you?

  Don’t worry Dragline. We got a dead-lock on that mullet. We just can’t lose.

  We can’t? You sure the Bear ain’t caught yuh now?

  Positive.

  Well. Ah don’t know. Ah hates to let it be said ah didn’t back up a buddy. But—Luke. Fifty eggs! Think o‘ that, man. Think!

  Ah am thinkin‘ Dragline. Ah’m thinkin’ this is a golden chance for us to pick up some easy money. And for me to get some extra Free World groceries besides. All we gotta do is play it real cool.

  Cool? You call that cool? Makin‘ a wild, rambunctious bet like that? Oh, Lawd. What did ah do? Ah done stole and tole lies. Ah have loved mah neighbor and his wife. But what—what did ah evah do to deserve a lunatic like this to come here into mah happy home and beat me outta mah hard-earned bread?

  But we were convinced that it was an opportunity for us to pick up some easy money. The word wafted up and down the ditch that very afternoon. And for a week afterwards we talked of nothing else. The terms were arranged, the details ironed out, the regulations negotiated. One hour was decided as the time limit. The eggs were to be boiled for five minutes, to be of medium size and to be purchased by the losing party. A technical point was raised as to whether the wager stipulated that Luke eat the eggs or retain the eggs. After a long, legal battle it was decided that Luke would be permitted to leave the table and to use the toilet at any time. Digestion and defecation could only be taken as incontrovertible proof that the eggs had been eaten. But if he ever vomited, he would automatically lose by default.

  The whole camp buzzed with excitement over the possibilities. Being the leading authority on such matters, Curly was consulted immediately as to his opinion of Luke’s chances. But Curly was unimpressed. His only comment was a laconic drawl,

  What’s the poor guy gonna drink? Boiled eggs can get mighty dry after the first dozen or two.

  After two weeks of preparations, a definite Sunday was set for the contest. On Sundays one of the trustees is always taken into the next town with a Store Order list to make purchases of odds and ends for the men in the Camp—ice cream, books, pipe tobacco, needle and thread. This time he would also have an order for four and a half-dozen eggs.

  In the meantime Dragline had exerted himself for a whole weekend with his propaganda efforts, walking up and down the Building in his bare feet and his clean, wrinkled pants just issued for the week. Boldly he swaggered, pounding on his naked chest with his fist.

  Ah knows he kin do it. He’s mah workin‘ buddy. Ah got faith in that there boy o’ mine. Ah’m the one what taught him all he knows. And ah got fifty fuckin‘ green lookin’ dollahs out yonder in the Cap‘n’s Office what says he kin do it. Ah’ll bet any swingin’ dick anything he wants to bet.

  But Society Red’s sophisticated arguments were just as persuasive. His was the application of logic, reason, realistic anatomy. And a powerful influence that prodded us on was the fact that even Koko seemed to be on Society’s side.

  We didn’t know it then but Koko was secretly acting as a shill. He made phony bets with Dragline and argued that fifty eggs would make about three quarts and weigh at least six pounds. In full voice he claimed that the eggs would swell up in Luke’s belly and kill him. Or Luke himself would swell up. He would drown, choke, give up or faint. Dragline was adamant, challenging and daring us all.

  And in the sheer ferocity of that challenge we cowered. We suspected that we were being conned somehow. Yet we couldn’t bring ourselves to believe in the impossible. So in the end we were bullied and cajoled into putting our money where our mouth was.

  For the rest of the week Luke went into training. Out on the road Dragline waited on him personally, heaping up his plate with beans and corn bread and watching him like a mother hawk.

  Eat them beans, bastard. Drink some more water too. And stay away from them candy bars tonight. We ain’t got but three more days. We gotta git that double-gut o‘ yours stretched and strained. We gotta git you in fightin’ shape. Like a barrage balloon.

  Why, you toothless bastard. If I had a belly like yours we wouldn’t have nothin‘ to worry about.

  Like mine? Hell, ah don’t eat much.

  Maybe not. But just look at the size of that gut.

  Well, hell. Don’t you know how come that to be? That’s a sign ah got me an affectionate nature.

  Affectionate? Like an elephant you mean?

  Maybe. Maybe so. Why not? Ah read in a book once that when an elephant’s makin‘ love it takes him two days and two nights to git his gun off. But when he does make it—man, look out.

  That’s you, huh?

  Sho! Ah’m an affectionate son of a bitch. Ah jes cain’t help mahself.

  The week came to an end. Saturday we began our usual weekend activities. But instead of loafing around and playing poker, Cool Hand Luke and Dragline spent the morning out on the lawn sparring with the old, worn-out boxing gloves. At noon Luke ate very little. He did some calisthenics in the afternoon and walked up and down the Building, stopping every few minutes to cup his hands under the faucet for a drink.

  Then the impossible happened. Luke didn’t eat any supper. And later, after we checked in for the night, Luke had Carr ask the Wicker Man for a couple of Brown Bombers and a cup of Epsom Salts.

  Society Red began to protest. This was the same as doping a race horse with a needle. But nothing had been mentioned in the contest rules about taking a physic. Nobody liked the idea but we had to admit that it was legal. So all evening and the next morning we glumly watched as Cool Hand made trip after trip to the john.

  It was Sunday. The big day. As we expected, Luke didn’t have any breakfast. Instead he drank water and did push-ups and boxed a couple of rounds with Dragline. It was nearly noon when the Trustee and the Yard Man got back from town with the Store Order.

  We didn’t waste any time. We knew that Cool Hand was getting hungrier and hungrier. About six of us formed an official cooking committee and ran around to the back of the Building where there is a huge cast-iron pot raised up on bricks which is used by the Laundry Boy to boil out our clothes. The pot was ready. We had already filled it halfway with the hose and built a fire under it out of fat pine kindling. By the time the Store Order arrived it was just beginning to boil.

  Carefully we took all the eggs out of the cardboard cartons and put them in a big paper bag. Cautiously, with tongues sticking out and with bated breath, we lifted up the bag and slowly lowered the whole thing into the pot, the paper dissolving almost instantly and the eggs settling gently to the bottom. Babalugats went over to the fence and asked Boss Shorty who was on the platform to time them for us. Then he came back to the rest of us standing and squatting around the pot, studiously watching it boil.

  When Boss Shorty yelled out that they were ready we used the coffee can that the Laundry Boy measures soap with, bailing out the water and putting out the fire. When we could reach the eggs we used our spoons and sticks of wood clamped together like chopsticks, fishing them out and laying them on the ground to cool off.

  We had no more bags so we brought the eggs inside the Building carried in our caps, five or six of us in a single file gingerly coming in with our caps in our hands as though they were the nests of exotic birds. Triumphantly we lay our fragile burdens on the poker table, counted them, put the four extras away and then counted them again.

  The poker table was cleared. Everyone was ordered to stand back. Only Luke and his coaches and trainers were allowed to sit on the bench. Then the surprise. Koko stepped forward and admitted that he had worked to con us into betting against Luke. So he was allowed to take his place with Curly and Dragline who were sitting with owlish serious
ness at the table. There was some more haggling. Luke’s handlers declared their intention to peel the eggs for him. We argued. Society Red virtually screamed. But finally even he had to admit that the bet was only to eat the eggs in one hour. However, we won a small concession, Cool Hand’s team agreeing not to begin peeling the eggs until the official time was started.

  So everything was set.

  Boss Shorty had just been relieved by another guard who took his shotgun and pistol. Then he came inside the Building with Boss Higgins to see what was going on. Everyone gathered round. Dice and poker, boxing, reading, howling, wallet manufacturing, grab-ass, haircuts, sleeping, listening to radios, letter writing, making jewel boxes out of hundreds of wooden matches all glued together and sandpapered—all the normal activities of the weekend were suspended. Everyone was silent. We waited. Outside we could hear the clump of Luke’s feet and his deep breathing as he did side-straddle hops. Then he stopped.

  We sat and we stood and we waited. Luke came in, sweating from his exercise. Then he went to his bunk and got a towel, undressed and came back to the shower, walking on the balls of his feet. Seemingly unaware of our hushed presence, he soaped and rinsed himself methodically with graceful and deliberate drama. We watched every move. We noticed how big he had grown since his arrival, how dark his skin had become. We looked at his scars. We looked at his belly, still heaving from his exercise and noticeably concave.

  He dried himself off, combed his hair in the fragment of broken mirror in the corner and studiously squeezed a blackhead out of his forehead. After squinting at his reflection a moment, he wrapped the towel around his waist and went back to his bunk. In a few minutes he came stalking back with his pants on. He stopped by the poker table, looked at the huddled family staring at him with awe, grinned and said—

  Well. Is everybody ready?

  Dragline jumped up and grabbed him by the arm, pulling him forward as he puffed up his chest and stuck his chin out with belligerent pride. Slapping his fist against his chest, he announced with gusto.

  This here’s mah boy!

  The uproar started. Last minute bets were made. We looked at Luke and then we looked at the massive pile of glittering eggs that filled the striped and muddy caps lined up on the table. Then we dug down for our last nickles and dimes, wrote out I.O.U.s against future money orders from home, mortgaged unfinished wallets and signed ourselves up for terms of indentured labor. All bets were covered by the Syndicate. If they lost they knew they would be in hock to the whole camp for the rest of their Time.

  Everything was ready. Luke sat in the middle of the bench facing his three trainers on the other side of the table. He shuffled his feet. He twitched his toes. His stomach visibly palpitating, he swallowed continuously, his fingers trembling as they clutched at the edge of the table.

  Solemnly Boss Shorty held his pocket watch, staring at the advancing seconds. At ten seconds to one o‘clock he held up his right hand. Then he dropped it.

  There was a tremendous roar from fifty throats as the three Peelers each grabbed an egg and cracked it on the table, their fingers flying as they stripped off the pieces of shell and the thin membrane underneath. But they were barely able to keep ahead of Cool Hand’s jaws which were snapping and chomping so ferociously there was a very real occupational danger of losing a finger. Luke didn’t even bother to chew. His jaw muscles flexing with dynamic power, he crushed an egg with his teeth, gulped once and it was gone—his mouth gaping wide for another.

  Desperately his assistants strove to keep ahead of him, counting aloud as each egg went down. Curly worked with professional, concentrated efficiency, holding each egg out on the flat of his open, stiffened hand. But Koko held out each one with reluctance, shy of his hazardous duty and flinching every time Luke grabbed an egg out of his hand. But for Dragline it was a labor of love. Grinning, his tongue rolling around his loose and flabby lips, he gently fed them into Luke’s gaping mouth with careful tenderness, his pinkie extended, like tossing a tidbit to some prehistoric monster which he alone had discovered, captured and domesticated.

  Eight—nine—ten—

  Our hearts sank in despair. Never had we seen such form, such coordination, such tactics and control. In the first three minutes twelve eggs disappeared, gobbled down like a turkey drinking water. Then Luke went into a steady, prolonged period of disciplined labor, swallowing them down at the rate of two eggs per minute. Koko monitored the schedule, borrowing Boss Shorty’s watch to hold it with studious concentration. Monotonously he chanted out the beat as Luke bit, chewed and swallowed with apparent serenity for ten minutes more.

  —twenty seven—twenty seconds to go—ten seconds to go—and—twenty-eight—twenty seconds to go—ten seconds to go—and—twenty-nine—

  Koko’s voice was the only sound. The rest of us stood, sat or squatted in motionless postures. Stupid Blondie had his mouth open. Possum chewed his fingernails. Babalugats sat there with a fixed grin on his face. Tramp was wringing his cap. Rabbit had an unlighted cigarette dangling loosely in his lips, his eyes bulging out of his head. Onion Head’s eyes were shut, his lips moving silently. Some of us had our arms folded over our chests, our heads bowed in humility. Others stood on one leg, their hands in their pockets. But Society Red couldn’t take it any more and got up to pace the floor of the Building.

  In the meantime Luke had become a Thing, an Appetite. He was nothing but mouth, stomach and rectum—the beginning, the middle and the end.

  After the thirty-second egg he stopped. Slowly he got up from the table, stretched his arms over his head and yawned, his stomach bulging as though he were pregnant. Deliberately he began to waddle towards the water faucet. We gasped aloud. This was a man tottering at the brink of the precipice. But he fooled us, only rinsing his mouth out and gargling, without swallowing anything.

  But as he leaned over for another mouthful of water, his hand cupped beneath the faucet, he let one go, breaking wind with a clear, prolonged note, a trumpet blast of triumph and bravura. And we panicked. We choked for breath, clutched each other in dismay and headed for the door in a stumbling stampede. Outside, the guards on the platforms nervously fingered their weapons, startled by the laughing, crying, shouting, cheering and jeering mob that had rushed out the door to spread out over the lawn, only gradually returning to peer back inside with exaggerated caution and alarm.

  Luke paced up and down the Building, stretching and gingerly raising first one leg and then the other. Back and forth he walked, pausing every so often to let one go with another blast. Time passed. We began to squirm. But Luke seemed in no hurry at all, calmly strolling up and down with total nonchalance. Fifteen precious minutes went by. We were in agony. Then he took his place at the table and started eating again. The air having cleared and no longer toxic, we cautiously crept back inside.

  Slowly now, with obvious effort, Luke resumed his consumption rate of one egg every two minutes. Finally only eight were left. But he only had nine minutes to go. And it was easy to see that he was stalled. Only with the greatest effort could he swallow. His stomach was horribly swollen. Dragline watched him, his lips twisted all out of shape. Beads of sweat broke out on his face. No one spoke. Koko began to massage Luke’s neck and shoulders. Then Curly helped him to his feet and with Dragline on the other side, walked him up and down the floor, Dragline talking to him, his voice urgent with desperate pleading.

  Come on boy. Come on, Darlin‘. You can do it. Just give yourself a little time. Relax that old belly. Just let it sag a little and enjoy itself. Only eight more, old buddy. Eight more between you and everlastin’ glory. Just eight little ole eggs. Pigeon eggs, that’s all. Practically fish eggs, you might say.

  They returned him to the bench, making Luke unbutton his pants and anxiously checking the time with Koko. Only four minutes. Gingerly Drag peeled an egg and offered it to Luke, his toothless lips pouted in the shape of a tender kiss.

  Come on baby. Come on. Don’t be that way. Open your little ole, gator too
th mouth.

  Then Luke began to eat. After the first egg he seemed to pick up speed, downing one after the other with growing inspiration.

  And it happened. We saw it happen. We dug our nails into our arms, we turned our backs, beat fists into open palms, swore terrible oaths and glared at each other in stricken agony.

  But Luke managed to gulp down the last three eggs in exactly thirty-three seconds, the final gulp no more than two seconds ahead of the deadline while Koko was dancing a delirious, barefooted flamenco and Dragline was screaming encouragement into his ear.

  Eat it there boy. Bite it. Gnaw on it. Git mad at the gawd damn things. That’s it. Chew. Chew. Chew!

  Then Luke collapsed. With a groan he folded his arms on top of the table and rested his head on them, his belly sagging downward, hard as concrete, watermelon smooth, grotesque.

  Society Red let out a howl.

  No! Wait a minute! No dice! He didn’t swallow that last egg. I’m telling you. He didn’t swallow it!

  He didn’t, huh? growled Dragline. Why, you city slicker son of a bitch, you. Ah’ll prove it. Come over here.

  Angrily Dragline lifted Luke’s head by the hair, forcing his mouth open with his fingers while a group of witnesses stared down his throat to their final satisfaction. Then Luke’s head dropped back to his arms, his fingers clutching at the mounds of egg shells scattered all over the poker table.

  The Camp went insane. Angrily we losers stomped up and down, cursing wildly and incoherently. There were screams, sad songs and weeping. But the Syndicate was in celebration, gleefully collecting their winnings, gloating, happily punching each other on the shoulders and waltzing around the Building. Ceremoniously, they each took one of the left-over eggs and began eating them with loud, deliberate smacking of their lips, with big grins and ostentatious pats of their bellies. Then Dragline took the very last egg and brought it over to Society Red who was sitting on his bunk, smoking a cigarette.