by Donn Pearce
Here you are, Society. Number fifty-four. You might as well have this one. You sure did pay enough for it.
Listlessly, Society Red took the egg and held it in his hand, sitting there, staring at it, saying nothing.
And for long moments there were small knots of men who loitered near the poker table staring with silent reverence and disbelief at Cool Hand’s cramped, agonized form. But we had seen it. We knew it for sure. Never before had anyone ever eaten like that. And never before, by any means whatever, had anyone managed to break the entire Camp. We were penniless. There wasn’t a poker game for a whole month. Arguments dangled in mid-air, unwagered. Pepsi Colas and candy bars were unsold. For we had been taken. We had been given the Slow Con.
And with slumped shoulders and shaking heads, with dazed eyes, with bewilderment and with despair, sadly and lovingly we muttered—
Cool Hand Luke.
10
IT WAS A MONDAY. ANOTHER MONDAY. And again the Bull Gang went out on the Road to begin another week. The tool truck and the cage truck bounced and rattled over the highways and over the secondary routes maintained by the State until they made that certain turn that brought us to Bear-Caught Avenue.
We stared at each other in bewilderment as the truck made its way over the lonely, narrow road that winds through the empty countryside, We jolted and swayed over the low sandy hills and past the sparse orange groves, trying to think of what kind of work needed to be done out there. The bushes had already been cut in the ditches, piled up in heaps, dried out and then burned. The rainy season was over and there were no washouts that needed to be filled. Nor was there any yo-yoing to be done.
For sixteen miles we drove through the woods and the prairies and the uncultivated fields. It was already hot, the thick vegetation blocking off any breezes and also throwing off its own heat.
And way out there in the middle of nowhere many a good man has been bear-caught, which is to be stricken with heat exhaustion and sunstroke. Your muscles cramp, your mouth is dry, your face is cold and yet sweating, your stomach knotted and nauseous. You are dizzy and your vision is blurred. You are weak. You stagger. Even your voice is affected and becomes a mere croak.
So we looked at each other and wondered. Then the trucks came to a halt at the end of the road. It was a dead-end. The pavement went right up to a thick wall of bushes and then stopped, right there. Quickly we unloaded, hurriedly snatching our last minute smokes. The guards spread out. Jim handed down our shovels and we stood there in a group on one side. We waited. But Boss Godfrey gave no command nor sign.
After fifteen minutes of just standing there, wondering what was up, a yellow pickup truck appeared up the road. It pulled over to one side and stopped and then we saw the letters painted on the door—S.R.D. Boss Godfrey strolled over and began talking to the engineers who made motions with their hands, gesticulating towards the road and towards the horizon.
But still there were no orders. We shifted our weight from one leg to the other, smoking, leaning on our shovel handles and mumbling to ourselves. Then we saw the tank truck coming and recognized it as the cumbersome machine that sprays hot, liquid asphalt on the surface of a road in order to make a new top. But there must always be an aggregate mixed with the asphalt to give it strength and thickness. Ordinarily a fleet of trucks will dump piles of clean beach sand alongside a road that is to be sprayed. Then we follow along behind the tank truck spreading sand with our shovels. There is a certain way to do it, a clever twist on the handle at the exact moment of the swing and the sand will fan out into long, triangular, finely powdered areas.
But this time there were no piles of clean sand. We would have to dig away the grass and the topsoil in the ditch bottoms to reach the gray Florida loam beneath.
Dragline spit a stream of tobacco juice, shook his head and muttered half aloud,
Oh man. Oh, man. Here’s where the shit hits the fan.
The tank truck turned around at the dead-end and then came back and stopped in the exact center of the road. The two S.R.D. men got out and adjusted a sliding pole attached to the front bumper. At the end of the pole was a vertical antenna that they used as a guide for steering. Then they mounted the rear platform and began fiddling with levers and wheels, adjusting valves and looking at gauges. A fire was roaring inside the furnace under the tank. There was steam and smoke. There was the stench of hot tar. Across the rear of the truck was a heavy pipe with spray nozzles spaced every few inches. It was made in sections that the men unhinged and adjusted so it would reach from one edge of the road to the other.
When the temperatures and the pressures were just right, the driver got in the cab and started up the motor. We were ready. Rabbit had collected our jackets and shirts. We had spaced ourselves on both sides of the road about ten feet apart, the guards well behind us, standing on top of the ditch bank. Our belts were hitched up and our caps readjusted, our breaths held in expectation.
With a pounding roar of the big diesel motor and a snorting blast of air pressure, the truck took off, the nozzles spraying black fountains of tar which left behind a long, hot glistening puddle.
Then the Bull Gang did its stuff.
Each line of men sanded the opposite side of the road, the shovel pans flashing in long, scintillating arcs of shining steel; arms flexing, chest muscles contracting, backs knotting up and relaxing, wrists twisting with expert finesse as the layers of sand shot across the road in swift avalanches streaking over the black glaciers of tar, here—there—the seventeen of us frantic in our labor, knowing that we would get no Smoking Period, our only breaks to be while waiting for the spray truck to return with still another load of asphalt.
And so we rolled.
We rolled for a week; a week of madness, of agony and enthusiasm. Our shovel handles were slimy with sweat, our bodies covered with mud, our lungs choked with the stench of the tar and its heat and with the cloud of dust that billowed away behind us.
It took about fifteen minutes for the truck to empty its load and then it would roar off to the S.R.D. yard in Oakland for still another. And we trailed along about a quarter of a mile behind, doing our utmost to finish a shot in time to have a few minutes in which to collapse on the ditch bank, to stretch out flat, to gulp down water, to roll up and light a smoke. But in no time at all the truck would return and we would be called to our feet to line up in position, waiting until the truck’s apparatus was made ready.
We stood there leaning on our shovels, each in his own way. Some tucked the end of the handle under their armpits, others within folded hands that propped up their chins, still others holding them at arm’s length. Some stood with legs spread apart, others with one foot resting on the shovel blade—all of us balanced, idle, laconic, waiting for the truck to start off again.
Our chests were still heaving from the exertions of the last truckload, the sweat pouring off our bodies, our pants sopping, dripping wet. Our brogans were so full of perspiration we made sloshing noises with every limping, staggering step. All of us were dizzy and exhausted. Everything was blurred, shadowed and out of focus, a whole herd of wild bears wandering among the bushes, ready to pounce upon us at any moment, furry visions climbing up our backs to hug us tight with mammoth arms.
But the farther we went the closer we came to Oakland. And the quicker the truck could return with its load. It became too much for us. We couldn’t possibly keep up. So on the second morning out there we were joined by the little Bull Gang and in the afternoon both Patch Squads came out. The next day even some of the trustees were given shovels. Everybody was there. The champions of the whole camp faced each other in an open skirmish line on opposing sides of the road.
You do not know the things that can be done with a shovel, the distance that dirt can be pitched, the accuracy, the speed. And during this week the project became a tournament. For the one remaining way in which we can still show our defiance of the great, golden authority that hovers above us all is to do even more than is demanded, to sho
w our contempt by working faster, better and harder, to serve its omnipotence willingly and with inspiration, enjoying it even.
So the old slogans and the war cries began to snap out in the heat and the flying dust. The Silent System was broken. We were out in the wilderness where there were no Free People and no one really cared much if he were to be put in the Box. It would be almost a break, even a privilege.
Partnerships were formed, little cliques, pairs and quartets. Cool Hand Luke, Dragline and Koko formed a working team that challenged anyone and everyone on the other side of the road, racing, trying to see who could finish a sector first and then move on up to the head of the line to begin another. The old rule was suspended and we were no longer required to yell out, “Gettin‘ on up here, Boss!” And now the Terrible Trio even began to run in its eager impatience to move forward and begin shoveling again.
The clumps of dirt spun through the air to explode on the road in a barrage of spraying sand and splashing asphalt, the air crisscrossed with hurtling, twisting projectiles. And the whoops were yelled back and forth in defiance and challenge, those old, old phrases, those bravuras of the Chain Gang.
Go hard, bastard! Go hard!
When it gets rough, get rough with it!
Yahoo! Let the Good Time roll!
If you hadn’t stole, you wouldn’t hafta roll!
Mud! Mud! Gimme some gawd damn mud!
The Free Men very nearly had to trot to keep up with our pace. They advanced through the orange trees, the weeds and bushes beside the road, knowing there was a dangerous mood in the air and that anything at all might happen. At the point of the advancing column two guards were walking backwards, one on either side of the road. Two more brought up the rear. Others were spread out behind our backs, boxing us in, their guns ready and on the alert.
Boss Kean chewed his quid, squinted and looked worried. Boss Paul’s smile was fixed and eternal. Boss Shorty smoked his pipe, the shotgun across his shoulders behind his neck, clutching it with both hands while cautiously walking backwards through the grass and the palmettos. Boss Smith watched us from beneath knitted brows, saliva at the corner of his lips, his pistol belt sagging awkwardly to one side as it slipped down his skinny hips.
In the meanwhile the other walking bosses had surrendered their authority to Boss Godfrey who brought up the rear of the double column of convicts, walking right down the middle of the tarred and dusted road and pointing at the thin spots with his cane. As though it were the baton of a sorceror, a burst of sand would explode wherever he pointed. All day long he strolled across the countryside enveloped in a furious cloud of dust, casually inventing hot saharas with his Walking Stick.
Hour by hour and day by day the week crawled by. On Tuesday afternoon a Newcock let go with a swing of the shovel, lost his balance, spun around in a complete circle and dropped flat on his back in the ditch, his eyes rolling, his mouth open, his chest wheezing in rapid, shallow movements. Jim and Rabbit carried him to the cage truck and shoved him inside, Boss Godfrey padlocking the door.
It got hotter. The Water Boys ran back and forth with their buckets to quench the insatiable thirsts of the double column of lunatics that trotted over the lonely road, hurling sand, digging, kicking, spinning their shovel handles in their slick, calloused hands with that certain gesture, pitching and throwing, going on to the head of the line to begin all over again, yowling as they went with manic laughs of absolute glee.
Then another day would end and we would load up, the cage truck and squad trucks and tool trucks and guard trailers all forming a convoy spaced out for a quarter of a mile roaring over the side roads and the highways and the expressways of the county. Every night we pulled into Camp and dismounted. Squad by squad we lined up on the sidewalk and waited to be shaken down, standing there with our heads bared to the Captain, our clothes and bodies covered with filth, our ears ringing, our heads aching and dizzy. Then the Yard Man opened the gate and we started through. But as we counted off our voices came out as strangled croaks, our mouths and throats like dry cotton. And as we staggered into the yard we all had trouble finding the Messhall door to line up for our rice and beans. Everything was blurred, thick, shadowed and out of focus.
For we were bear-caught. All of us. The entire camp. Everybody.
After supper we dragged ourselves inside the Building, took a shower and fell into our bunks, our back and leg muscles stiff and cramped, our hands sore, our heads aching. Some men passed out completely, like logs, but others spent the night tossing, their limbs twitching as they shoveled their way through their dreams. The First Bell rang in the morning and we forced ourselves to get up, to put on our wet shoes and pants and weakly fall out into the yard and the dark chilly air to have breakfast and line up and count through the gate and then line up again, standing there waiting, dreaming, listening to the howls of Big Blue, the bloodhound. Another day began, the four squads of Gunmen loading up into the trucks, the trustees coming out later after they had helped the cooks clean up after breakfast. Again, the entire camp was out on the Road, doing battle on Bear-Caught Avenue.
All of us were there:
Ugly Red, the moonshiner; Four Eyed Joe, who is doing Time for screwing his daughter; Little Greek, the sponge diver and check artist from Tarpon Springs; Big Steve, the heist man; Rabbit, Coon, Possum, Gator and Eagle, all characters from the tales of Uncle Remus; Sleepy, the last of the Seven Dwarfs, whose six partners all got away when the cops arrived; Onion Head; Burr Head; Stupid Blondie, Stupider Blondie and Stupidest Blondie; Chief, the Blackfoot Indian, the con man and chronic liar whose true exploits are just fantastic enough to keep everyone guessing about the others; Ears, who has all of it, who looks like a taxi coming down the road with both front doors open, our only Lifer; Koko, the twenty-threeyear-old Canadian burglar who has twelve more years to serve; Cottontop, the idiot from Oklahoma; Babalugats, a four-time loser, pulling five years for creeping the Miami mansion of Al Capone’s brother; Blind Dick, the selfstyled sex maniac who proudly shows you the pictures and the article in Coronet magazine showing him being mauled by a posse after three days of frantic flight and pursuit in the Everglades; Alibi Moe; Tramp; Bullshit Bill; Preacher, whose mother is a policewoman in Jacksonville and who is doing a three spot for stealing a cow; Loudmouth Steve, the juvenile delinquent; Society Red; Blackie, the bigamist; Dynamite, who finished a year for stealing a car, was free for six days, stole a car with which to return home to Connecticut, had a wreck, was caught and given three more years—all of us were‘there; the big ones and the little ones, the cagey and stupid ones, the quiet and the shy and the guilty, the gray and the nameless as well as the bold ones, the wild ones who bore the names of barbarian warriors.
This was the Family, our true family. There were fifty-four of us all together and there was nothing that we hadn’t done. There was no dream that we had not dreamed. There was no crime that we had not committed.
We went out in the morning and we rolled all day. Then we loaded up and went back to Camp. But on Wednesday the convoy of trucks turned off on an alternate route that brought us roaring along the back roads and past the edge of Lake Apopka. Somewhere near Ferndale the cage truck stopped at an intersection waiting for an opening in the swarm of southbound traffic before making the turn. Behind us the entire black and yellow convoy closed up in a bunch, the motors racing, the guards vigilant, the men in the open squad trucks clustered together like a swarm of bees.
Right in the corner of the two roads was a juke joint, three jalopies parked in front, a red neon sign in the window reading “Budweiser,” music drifting from a juke box through the screen door with a big rip near the bottom. Then a woman came out and walked across the rutted yard of crushed shell. She was a large and buxom brunette wearing a bar maid’s apron and moved towards us with an open, eager smile. We looked at her, catching our breath. Bear-caught or no bear-caught we were tantalized by the sight of her face, her breasts, her legs.
But all the while she had been carr
ying a small gray kitten in her hand. Just as the cage truck started up she suddenly held it up in the air and yelled out so all of us could hear,
Hey! Do yo’ll want a pussy?
Without thought or agreement or hesitation, from right out of our guts and our chests and throats there was one, spontaneous, unified roar that went echoing over the countryside; a single, sharp yell that drowned out the whine of gears and pistons and wheels and violated every Chain Gang rule there was, the whole Family letting out one violent, grated howl of eagerness, of desire, of daring, of torment—
YEEEAAAHHHH!!!
But when we got into Camp there was nothing said. No one was called out to go down to the Box. Our breach of discipline was simply ignored.
Thursday began as just one more day of following the spray truck and spreading sand in its wake, of covering the surface of the pool of asphalt in our own immediate area, pitching a shovel load at the spot where Boss Godfrey pointed with his Stick and then running up to the head of the line to start all over again.
By then Cool Hand Luke had already emerged as the master of the Family. He was the absolute Champion. None of us could keep up with the grueling pace of his day-long fury, even the biggest, the strongest and the fastest men all falling behind, unable to match his turbulent frenzy. Koko was forced to drop back, his chest heaving, his knees shaking as he slowed down to the mediocre pace of the rest of us. Even Dragline had to slow down.
But Luke surged on ahead without his working partners. All the Rollers from the other squads went insane trying to keep up with him, trying to match his speed and his skill, his cries and his whoops of exuberance. But Luke’s shovel did scribbled arabesques in the sun. He did not kick at the blade, bend the handle over his knee, swing back, let fly and twist—Luke simply stabbed the shovel into the earth and brought it up and around in one smooth, roundhouse motion, throwing the load in a crosshand stroke without hesitation or pause.
