Cool Hand Luke (24 page)

Yeah. Yeah. I wanna. I wanna.

But what for? It's just one of them tourist postcard things. Like people send back home from Miami and places.

I know. I know.

So what good is it?

It's good. It's good. I wanna look. Come on. O.K.? Huh?

Well, ah don‘ know. It might give you bad ideas. It might even cause you to git a little rabbit in yore blood.
Ah mean, it's pretty dangerous stuff. An 'eff'n that mean ole Wicker Man over yonder was to see it—Why, he might even wanna take it away. Somebody might even git to go out and see Silver Springs for the rest of the night. Maybe fer two or three nights.

“I'll be careful. Whaddaya think? I'm stupid?

Never mind that. ‘Portant thing is, how much would it be worth to take a peek at this here Picture? A quick peek ah'm talkin' about. Not no memorizin‘ job.

A cold drink?

A cold drink? You mean one cold drink? To feast yore starvin‘ fishy li'l eyes on The Picture? A true vision of Paradise itself? With three of the Angels right there in plain sight a-playin‘ and a-friskin' ‘round wif mah boy?

A cold drink? Huh?

Well—O.K. It's a deal. One Pepsi, eff'n you please. Like pay in advance? One sweaty, chilly bottle right here in mah hot, li‘l hand?

Finally Dragline would permit himself to be cajoled into taking out the Movie Magazine from under his mattress, to look over and see what Carr and the Wicker Man were doing and then slip it to Babalugats who leaned against the wall and held the magazine up against his knees, pretending to be engrossed in reading. For a long time he would sit there without moving. Slowly his face would begin to relax, a smile of rapture spreading through the dirt and the sunburn, his eyes flitting here and there as he drank in the glory, the beauty and the sanctity of that very private view of the Free World.

IT HAPPENED ABOUT FOUR MONTHS LATER. We were working on the Dead Tree Road which was named after an enormous and macabre dead oak tree covered with moss, one side of the trunk blackened from some ancient brush fire. It stood in the center of an open prairie of marsh grass, an isolated giant, its gnarled limbs threatening and spectral.

We spent the whole morning piss anting the washouts along the edge of the pavement. The slope of the
shoulder was steep and difficult and we clambered up and down with monotonous patience. About an hour after Bean Time the Captain's black and yellow Chevrolet drove up. He got out and sauntered towards Boss Godfrey, a pistol stuck in his belt over his stomach, one hand in his pocket, jingling his change.

The Walking Boss yelled out for all of us to line up close together in the bottom of the ditch. Puzzled, we did as we were told, taking off our caps in acknowledgement of the Captain's presence, leaning on the handles of our shovels. We looked at each other, at the shotgun guards who had moved in close, at the Walking Boss and the Captain standing there on the edge of the road staring down at us with their hands on their hips.

Then the Captain turned and waved. Two trustees got out of the Chewie and came forward carrying tools. Between them, wearing handcuffs and brand new convict clothes, walked Cool Hand Luke.

We stared. Some of us cursed under our breaths. Some men shut their eyes while others hung their heads. They made Luke stand on the edge of the road while the trustees knelt down and began to rivet a pair of shackles on his ankles. Luke stood facing us, motionless and inscrutable while the hammers were tapping at his heels. And after the trustees finished putting on the shackles, to our confoundment, they began to put on a second pair.

When the trustees were finished they stepped aside. The Captain unlocked the handcuffs and put them in his hip pocket. There was a pause and then he stepped
behind Luke's back, pulled the pistol from his belt and brought the barrel right down on his head. Luke fell forward, face down in the dirt, his hobbled legs kicking and squirming. The Captain growled to the trustees and they pulled Luke to his knees, each one holding him by an outstretched arm.

Three times the pistol cracked on his skull as blood spurted over his face and neck and dripped from his lolling head onto the sand. Impulsively some of us shifted forward but the guards aimed their shotguns right at us, their fingers on the triggers. Grabbing Luke by the hair and snatching his head backwards, the Captain punched him in the face with his other hand. Grunting and panting, he struck again and again, cursing through clenched teeth.

You son of a bitch you! You shit eatin‘ mother fucker! You run one time and you got yourself a set of chains. Huh? You done run twice and now you got two sets of chains. Don't try to git yourself a third set. Huh? You hear? Ah'm warnin' yuh! You'd better git your god damn mind right! Git it right. Or else!

With a final blow, Luke's head was flung forward. He hung there by the arms, limp, sagging, held up by the trustees who turned their faces with sickened grimaces, unable to look at him, unable to look at each other. And we stood there staring up at Cool Hand's body that was crucified against the sky, his bleeding head bowed toward us.

Behind him stood Boss Godfrey, his black hat outlined on the cloudy heavens beyond, his mirrored glasses
catching the full rays of the sun and reflecting them down upon us, the eyes of the Walking Boss becoming two balls of blinding celestial fire.

At a grunted command, the trustees dropped Luke forward, face down in the dirt. The Walking Boss kicked him in the ribs and thighs and sent him whirling down the slope towards us, spinning in a whirl of rattling chains, a cloud of dust and a spatter of gore to come to rest in an anguished heap at our feet. Then he growled down at us, his voice deep and gritted with menace.

All right. There he is. There's your Cool Hand Luke. If you all don't want to end up just like him, you'd
all
better git your minds right. Ah mean
right!
Rabbit! Go fetch a bucket of water and throw it on this smart-ass bastard. And git another shovel from the tool truck. A new one.

No one knows how Luke finished out the day. One of his eyes was completely shut, his lips swollen and cut, his nose out of shape. Blood came from everywhere, making his face a hideous red mask, his hair a red knitted helmet that soon turned to mud in the flying dust, finally congealing in the heat of the sun into a hard black crust.

Dragline muttered and swore at the rest of us.

Aw right. Let's git with it. Let's git
mad
at it.

And the dirt flew. No longer did we crawl up and down the slope. Grunting and sweating, we pitched the dirt, the clumps arcing up in fast, neat accurate projectiles that exploded at the feet of the two Chain Men on top who brushed down the dirt with the edge of their shovels. Luke
made nominal motions, weakly throwing the dirt as far up the slope as he could.

Rabbit brought around the water bucket for a drink. As Luke raised the dipper to his bruised mouth Rabbit murmured to him encouragingly, his lips in a straight line, unmoving.

We're with ya boy. Take it easy now. It's three thirty. You got about three hours more. But you'll make it. I sneaked some aspirins into the dipper. Swallow ‘em down. But don't let on. Or the Man'll have my ass.

Once Luke stumbled and fell to his knees, feebly shaking his head with confusion. Boss Godfrey started towards him, grasping his Walking Stick stiffly. But under the encouragement and the command of our hissed warnings, Luke managed to stand up again and start moving.

At last we loaded up into the truck and started back to Camp, making a mattress on the floor with our shirts and jackets, laying Luke on his back and propping up his head, putting a cigarette into his mouth. There wasn't anymore we could do until we got in except to sit there and keep hoping they wouldn't put him in the Box. But they didn't, allowing us to clean him up so that he wouldn't be an embarrassing spectacle to the Free World traffic on the highways.

First we led him into the shower by the hand and bathed him like a baby. Then Dragline and Koko worked on him all evening. And so did Carr, who revealed a hidden tenderness in the delicate way he used his own scissors
and razor to carefully shave away the hair from Luke's head and doctor the wounds. Other men dug into their lockers and found a leather chain harness that would fit around his calves. Koko massaged his neck and shoulders. Carr got him some more aspirins and carefully taped his broken nose.

Then his one good eye glanced at the men gathered around him and his swollen, grotesque mouth feebly tried to smile.

Whattaya say, boys? What's new?

His lips opening just enough for the words to come out, he managed to tell
us
what was new. For one thing he had just spent three months in a county jail awaiting trial. After that he was sent up to Raiford and reprocessed just like any other Newcock. Now he had a new serial number. And he had a new sentence—three more years for stealing the woman's car and her groceries during his first escape. And for breaking and entering and stealing some Free World clothes during his last escape—ten more years.

We were silent. But Luke didn't seem the least upset, bearing the weight of his Time with absolute cheer. Then someone tried to change the subject. What we really wanted to hear were the details of his adventures. We wanted to know how he got away and how he beat the dogs. Where did he hide out and how did he make a living out in the Free World? How many girls did he lay? What capers did he pull? And how did he finally get knocked off?

Slowly he began murmuring the story, pausing for a swallow of Pepsi Cola and a drag on his cigarette. He told us how he swiped a horse out of the farm yard where he had cut his chain with an axe, riding him bareback for a couple of miles and then letting him go, jumping on a freight train that had stopped for water and riding it until dawn. Just before daylight he broke into a garage and cut off his shackle rings with a hacksaw. He found a razor, a pair of overalls and a welder's cap in the men's room where he shaved and washed up and changed clothes. Dressed as a mechanic he hitched rides back to Alabama and managed to sneak home. His brother gave him some money and bought him a ticket on the Greyhound bus. After making a short, surreptitious visit to his mother's grave, he went to New Orleans where he changed his name and got a job on the outskirts of town as a plumber's helper. And that's where he stayed, living quietly and playing it cool.

Koko became agitated, his fingers trembling as he held the Movie Magazine, glancing down at the cover.

Aw, come on, Luke. Tell us the rest of it. How about all them broads? And them big scores you made?

I didn't make no scores, old buddy. What do you think I am? A no-count, rotten, god damn international jewel thief like you?

Koko grinned, blinking his eyes with embarrassed pride. Then Dragline interrupted.

Well, what about all them broads? Tell us about all
that real fine pussy you made out wif. You didn't eat it all up did yuh? Ah mean, there's still some left out there for us, ain't there?

Oh, lover boy. I don't know what I'm gonna do with you. I didn't even get laid, Drag. I didn't have time. I didn't have no money. I had to get some decent clothes and pay rent and buy groceries. Groceries? Oh damn, I almost ate myself right into bankruptcy every single week.

Koko hooked his right hand into a stiffened claw, shaking it as though it were hot, his big lips pouted in disappointment.

You didn't get
laid?
You didn't even get
laid?

Well, no. I tried. There was this waitress gal that worked where I used to eat all the time. I took her out to a picture show a couple times and sat on the porch swing with her after work. We smooched it up a little bit, yeah. But I couldn't do no more than play stinky finger.

What? You? She turned you down? A good lookin‘ son of a bitch like you? Why I could kiss you myself.

Well, thank you, sweetheart. But my looks didn't cut no ice with her. She was lookin‘ to get married. Settle down. All like that there. And I didn't have a dime. And there was a couple guys kept hangin' round who had brand new shiny cars. So, you know.

Aw Luke. Come on. Tell us the way you ought to. Loosen up a little bit. Let yourself go.

Why Koko, baby. I'm surprised at you. You know I never tell anything except what God loves. And that's the Truth.

Aw, to hell with that stuff. Come on, Luke. We don't wanna hear about all them two bit troubles. Tell us the way it was
supposed
to be. That's what we wanna know. How do you expect us to make plans for when we get out?

I don't know what to tell you, Koko. It's a hard world out there. It just is, that's all.

Well, how about this. How about The Picture?

Luke opened up the magazine and smiled.

Oh, that. I thought you boys might be havin‘ the Black Ass back here. And maybe you'd miss your old buddy Cool Hand. So I thought I'd send you this little old snapshot to kind of cheer you all up. All together that damn thing cost me about a week's pay.

How had he been caught? He was a bit reluctant to discuss it but apparently the waitress' rejection was harder to take than he would admit. He continued to woo her but she kept playing hard to get. Again he began drinking, habitually and heavily. Then in swift strokes of calamity, in less than one week, he lost his job, the girl refused to talk to him, he went broke and then landed in jail.

He was down in the French Quarter one night, roaring drunk when a cop approached him down the sidewalk, swinging his club. Luke went berserk. With a scream he took a swing at the cop, kicking at him, knocking him down and rolling with him into the gutter. Civilian bystanders subdued him with difficulty, pulling him off the patrolman and holding him until the wagon arrived.