Cool Hand Luke (5 page)

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.

But I smiled as I read the story. I liked the face of this Lloyd Jackson, twenty-eight, born in Birmingham, Alabama, infantry veteran of three major campaigns during the big war, the one that established the Four Freedoms once and for all. He was a holder of two Purple Hearts, a Bronze Star and a Silver Star. But he had no Good Conduct Medals. He had been given company punishment on a number of occasions and had served sixty days in a disciplinary battalion for going AWOL. After three and a half years of service, three years of which were overseas, he was discharged as a private.

I showed the paper to Dragline who read it with a studied frown, his lips sagging loose and open. Koko came over and squatted beside him, his eyes wide, his grin broad and nervous. Koko began to insert bits of information and interpretations of his own, embellishing the story out loud. Dragline growled at him a couple of times but it did no good.

Shut up, willya? Ah'm readin‘.

Yeah. I know. I'm readin‘ too.

Naw, you ain't. You're makin‘ it all up as you go.

I'm just sayin‘ how it really was.

How the hell do you know how it was?

Aw, you can tell. This guy's cunt sent him a Dear John and so he started hittin‘ the bottle, see? Probably a little punchy too, from too much combat and all. And he
was a tough bastard, you know? Wouldn't never take no shit from nobody. So one night he got fed up with this Square John job he had and he—

Jes shut up. Let me read the gawd damn thing.

Come on Drag! Don't pull it away. I want to read too.

Well read then. And shut the hell up.

So long before Jackson arrived at our camp, before he even knew what The Hard Road was, before he had even been tried and sentenced, he had already become a legend to the Bull Gang, his influence stirring our imaginations and quickening our hearts. For the rest of the afternoon we thought about him as we walked beside the highway stooping over to pick up trash, ignoring our aching backs, ignoring the roaring traffic, the sun, the guards, ignoring our fate and our Time.

It was as though we were casually strolling along Franklin Street in Tampa late one night after everything was closed up, no cars parked along the curbs, the sidewalks empty, the shop windows glowing with serene displays of luxuries appreciated by no one but ourselves. And we were drunk, all tanked up on beer and wine and whiskey and the whole town was soft and dim and lovely.

Suddenly a pick-up truck came zooming down the street. A sign on the door of the cab read “Acme Plumbing Service.” But Jackson was driving it hell-for-leather, as though it were a scout car entering a bombarded city on the heels of the retreating enemy. He jammed on the brakes, the rear end swinging around. Then he sat there,
staring through the grime of the windshield, the street lights and traffic signals glowing through the dimness of his intoxicated mind.

All he could see were the green benches and the parking meters spaced along the curbs. He realized that they were advancing, marching forward in open ranks, a battalion of emaciated soldiers with ugly faces beneath odd-shaped foreign helmets. And across the forehead of every one of them was tattooed in red letters the word VIOLATION.

Jackson shut his eyes, opened one of them and squinted. Then he tried squinting the other eye. Leaning his elbow on the steering wheel and resting his chin in his hand he pondered the tactical situation. Had he done a violation? Did he dare make a violation? Had a violation been committed against him? And how does it come about, these god damned violations? Is a violation done to you—are they made—or do you commit them? And he growled deep down in his throat. He opened the door, put one foot on the running board and leaned out, yelling down Franklin Street.

Look out, you bastards. You can't challenge me that-a-way. I got a pass. Signed by the old Provost Marshal himself. Yeah. Ole Chicken Shit Williams.
Ker
-nel Chicken Shit, I mean.

He got back in the cab and gripped the wheel with both hands, lowering his head and glaring through the windshield.

Look at ‘em. Fuckin' bastards. All lined up and
blinkin‘ their bloodshot eyes at me. In a perfect enfilade position too. If I had me a BAR—. I'll show 'em though. Violation, huh? I'll show ‘em some
real
violations.

Putting the truck in gear, he started forward with a jerk, stalled the motor, cursed out loud and started it again. Roaring ahead for half a block, he slammed on the brakes, skidded to a stop and leaped out of the cab, the motor still running as he dashed over to the curb, spit at one of the parking meters and fumbled in his pocket for a ring of keys. There was a big metal tool box bolted to the side of the truck just behind the cab. Jackson leaned forward to put the key in the padlock, lost his balance, swore and kicked the door of the box. He tried it again, got it open and noisily turned over the heap of tools inside, a clattering pile of wrenches, hammers, taps, dies and star chisels. He found the pipe cutter, pulled it out of the clanking heap and slammed the door of the tool box.

Trying to hold himself erect, he marched forward, his shoulders slanted over to one side as he stumbled over the curb holding the heavy tool in his hand. He stood in front of one of the meters that had a square sign attached to the pipe that supported it, listing in green letters the regulations about parking in that spot. Jackson grinned, then scowled with cunning malice.

O.K. Mister General, you son of a bitch. Sir. You think you can straighten everything out with an old beat-up silver dollar with a peppermint stripe ribbon hangin‘ on it? Is that it? Speak up, manl Chin in! Chest out! Count cadence, loud and clear. So you gave me your
fuckin' medal and now everything's just copacetic. Well, I gotta cut your god damned head off. It's a matter of principle. It's my god damned patriotic duty. But don't worry. They'll give you the Medal of Honor. For sure. Posthumorously. With crossed turds on a field of gold.

Jackson clamped on the pipe cutter, screwed it up tight, pulled it around two or three times, tightened up the adjusting handle a bit more and turned it again. In less than half a minute the meter came loose in his hands and he threw it into the back of the truck.

O.K. Load up, General. The convoy's movin‘ up. We gotta make contact with the enemy before dawn.

Jackson staggered up to the next parking meter.

O.K. Helen. Off comes that pretty little head.

Quickly he adjusted the pipe cutter, made two jerking turns, missed when he grabbed for the handle and staggered backwards a few steps. He wobbled back and forth a little, got his bearings and wagged his finger at the next meter in line.

Don't worry sergeant. I'll be with you in a minute. Stand at ease there while I settle a domestic situation over here.

Breaking out in a sweat in the hot, sticky air, his breathing became labored, his voice hoarse with the ferocity of his exertions.

O.K. Kitten. Sorry to do this. But I lost my head over you. Now it's your turn.

So he went. He left the motor of the truck running, the door open, the headlights illuminating his work. One
after the other he proceeded south down the main shopping district of the town. Methodically he piled the meters together along the curb and every so often went back to drive up the truck, throwing in the meters with a tremendous bang and clatter, pausing every now and then to look down at the trophy in his hands, shake it and mutter,

Well, Colonel Chicken Shit. Sounds like you got a screw loose here and there. Better have you examined. Can't have no Section Eights runnin‘ around in this outfit. Right?

Down the sidewalk a city cop came sauntering along his beat, twirling his club. He saw the truck of one of the municipal maintenance people up ahead, tested the door of a bank building, a clothing store and then a jewelry shop. When he came abreast of the maintenance man he muttered a friendly,

Evenin‘.

Howdy, answered the man who went on with his work. The cop walked on a few feet and then turned to watch the proceedings. The man grunted as he turned the cutter with jerking pulls, putting his shoulders behind it and catching the meter as it came loose. Then he began singing the old hillbilly song, Little Liza Jane.

The cop stood by, swinging his club and watching. But it was a late hour for a city employee to be working. On the other hand a good deal of maintenance work is done at night. But why are they removing the parking meters on Franklin Street? Lord only knows what the Big Wheels will decide to do next. Seems like they'd say somethin‘
anyhow so's a body'd know what was goin' on. But what was goin‘ on?

Hey fella. What are you doin‘ anyway?

Jackson continued with his work, pulling the cutter around with smooth, even jerks and tightening the handle every so many turns. Without looking at the cop, he answered:

I'm cuttin‘ off this parkin' meter. What does it look like?

Oh. Yeah. But—who are you?

I'm Lloyd Jackson.

Yeah—but who
are
you?

I dunno. You might say I was a parkin‘ meter bandit.

Jackson walked right past the cop, threw the meter into the back of the truck and walked up to the next in line. The cop shuffled his feet.

Listen. I think maybe you'd better come with me.

I can't. I ain't finished this block yet.

Yeah, but you can come back. You can always come back later. I gotta check this here deal.

How come? What's there to check?

Well—never mind. Come on. Let's go.

If you say so—officer—sir. Here. Hold this.

Jackson handed the cop the pipe cutter and walked around to the front of the truck. The cop took the offered tool, staring down at it in his hands.

Hey, what are you doin‘?

I gotta park my truck don't I? I ain't gonna leave
the motor runnin‘ for some thief to just come and help himself.

Before the cop knew what was happening, Jackson was in the cab. He shifted gears, gunned the motor and roared down the street at top speed.

Hey! Stop! Come back here!
Halt! Halt!

The cop dropped the pipe cutter and yanked out his pistol. He aimed up at the sky and squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. Then he squeezed again and yelled out his challenge, his voice loud and echoing down the empty street.

Halt!
In the name of the
Law!

Looking at his pistol, he snapped off the safety and started to aim at the fleeing truck. But this time he squeezed the trigger too quickly. The gun went off with a tremendous noise, the window of a second story dentist's office collapsing in a rattle of glass fragments.

Quickly the cop began firing. The bullets cracked and whined as they ricocheted off the street, the curb, and then a “No Parking” sign. Jackson turned a corner, just in time for the last bullet to hit the front left tire. The steering wheel wrenched itself out of his hands, the truck bouncing over the curb and across the sidewalk, crashing with a splintering roar through the plate glass window of a closed restaurant, crushing tables and chairs and finally coming to rest after jarring the end of the counter out of place and tearing the fastenings out of the floor.

The cop came running up, out of breath, fumbling with trembling fingers as he tried to reload his pistol and
run at the same time. He dropped several bullets along the way, swore, started to pick them up, hesitated, ran on. Coming to the restaurant, he cautiously stepped inside, his shoes crunching on broken glass, crouching carefully as he approached the truck.

There was a long pause. Then the door to the cab clicked open and Jackson slowly and laboriously climbed out, humming under his breath.

Stop! Stay right where you are!

Jackson ignored the cop. It was as though he hadn't heard him as he fumbled in his pocket for some change, rubbed his nose with his fingers and gingerly felt the cut on his forehead. He looked at the blood on his fingertips, tasted it with his tongue and then wiped it off on his pants.

Staggering ever so slightly and favoring his left leg, he went over to the juke box in the corner and dropped in a quarter, hesitating over the buttons as he scanned the titles. But the cop insisted.

Hey! Come on, you!

Jackson punched one button after another, frowning and squinting his eyes as he considered each of his selections. The cop was shaking with frustrated rage.

Come on! God damn it! You're under arrest! Get ‘em up!

The juke box burped, swallowed and groaned. It began to come alive with glowing, bubbling colors. Levers clicked, gears meshed, a disc was removed from a rack visible through the glass front, placed on the table and started turning. The playing arm moved over, setting the
needle in the proper groove. Then a quartet of gospel singers began a vigorous hymn accompanied by a complicated harmony of banjos and guitars picking and strumming in the background.

Oh Lawd! Ah'm a-comin‘, a-comin' to that Angel La-and!

Snapping his fingers and shaking his lowered head with ecstasy, Jackson shuffled over the broken glass and splintered wood, dancing out onto the sidewalk as the cop followed behind him with his pistol, tremulous and agitated.

And so Jackson committed his very own crime and was brought before the wrath of the Law. He left behind him an anguished chorus of forlorn voices praying over an abandoned city as he danced his way heel and toe right over the debris and into his cell.