Cool Hand Luke (11 page)

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 tooth 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.

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.

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.