Cool Hand Luke Part 6

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 s.n.a.t.c.hing 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 G.o.dfrey 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 G.o.dfrey 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 s.h.i.+fted 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 c.u.mbersome 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 gra.s.s 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 s.h.i.+t 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 b.u.mper. 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 s.p.a.ced 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 s.h.i.+rts. We had s.p.a.ced 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 flas.h.i.+ng in long, scintillating arcs of s.h.i.+ning 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 slos.h.i.+ng 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 show 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.

Partners.h.i.+ps 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 splas.h.i.+ng 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, b.a.s.t.a.r.d! 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 d.a.m.n 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 gra.s.s 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 G.o.dfrey 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 Newc.o.c.k 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 G.o.dfrey 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 s.p.a.ced 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 pa.s.sed 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 moons.h.i.+ner; Four Eyed Joe, who is doing Time for s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g his daughter; Little Greek, the sponge diver and check artist from Tarpon Springs; Big Steve, the heist man; Rabbit, c.o.o.n, 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 d.i.c.k, the selfstyled s.e.x 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; Bulls.h.i.+t 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 cl.u.s.tered 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 sh.e.l.l. She was a large and buxom brunette wearing a bar maid's ap.r.o.n 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s, her legs.

But all the while she had been carrying 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 p.u.s.s.y? p.u.s.s.y?

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 G.o.dfrey 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.

And this is the way you saw us that Friday as we began to approach the civilized frontiers of the Free World. You sat on the porches of your farmhouses and on the patios of your split-levels, drinking iced drinks and fanning yourselves, resting in the shade to alleviate the effects of the hundred and five degree heat wave that had overwhelmed central Florida for that whole week. You sat in your s.h.i.+ny new cars and waited in the line that formed up behind the trustee with the red flag. The tank truck went by empty. Soon a large dust cloud appeared down the road and began to drift towards you. Within that cloud you could see us, a gang of half-naked, laughing demons dancing an exuberant ballet of labor. We came closer. You could hear the tinkling shackles on the legs of the Chain Men. You saw the rolling cage, the melodrama of armed guards, the vertical white stripes on the sides of our sopping wet pant legs, the numbers painted on our b.u.t.tocks.

Luke was right there in the lead. His chest was streaked with mud and sweat and spattered drops of tar, his shovel twinkling and flas.h.i.+ng with a paroxysm of energy. The guards and the convicts began to pa.s.s. And behind that column came the tall, obscure figure of the Walking Boss; the Man in the Black Hat; the Man With No Eyes; Boss G.o.dfrey himself advancing through the grit and the mists while creating miracles with his Stick; pointing (blop) here (splat) there (splop) and strolling over the landscape on a huge gray carpet of sand that unrolled majestically beneath his feet.

11.

ALL THAT SPRING WE WORKED OUR WAY back and forth across the frontiers, the verticals and diagonals of our section of The Hard Road. And it was yo-yo, shovel and bush axe all the way-up and down the whole of Lake County and along the edges of Orange County and Sumter County, from the big towns of Leesburg, Tavares and Apopka to the tiny villages of Zellwood, Crow's Bluff, Lady Lake, Okahumpka, Umatilla, Astatula and Howey-in-the-Hills.

Then they sent us out on Eyeball Boulevard which is really Route Number 441. For a week we graded the shoulders, cutting down the excess dirt formed by the gradual settling of the pavement and shaving off the sods of gra.s.s that had acc.u.mulated, both forming pools of water on the highway whenever it rained, like the rims of a saucer. Measuring the required angles with levels and surveyor's rulers, using stakes and lines, we cut down the shoulders with our shovels until we had achieved a precise angle to the slope.

Or on the other hand we would sometimes find washouts caused by the heavy summer rains and we would throw up dirt from the ditch bottoms. Then following along behind us would come the Fine Graders who put the finis.h.i.+ng touches on the slope, shaving it down with great exact.i.tude, handling their razor-sharp shovels like fine instruments to leave the earth square and perfectly smooth and decorated with a useless but handsome layer of sand expertly thrown over the finished sector to make it as perfect as a billiard table.

And the Fine Graders of the Bull Gang were the Terrible Trio; Koko, Dragline and Luke. They were the ones with the skill and the strength and above all with the status that ent.i.tled them to this position of authority. And along with their responsibilities went the privilege of Eyeballing, a license discreetly exercised and never granted officially but a tangible right nevertheless.

The rest of us did the heavy work, breaking the ground for the aristocrats in the rear. But we too were able to take advantage of the wonders and the beauties of Eyeball Boulevard. Years of practice had taught us the art and a certified eyeballer can be staring at his feet and shoveling all day in a perfect frenzy. But all the while he is staring into the burnished pan of his shovel which catches the reflection of a chrome plated hub cap whirling by on the road. And in that infinite glimpse he catches the spinning vision of a distant window behind his back, in the frame of which there is the flash of a polished doork.n.o.b reflecting around the edge of a doorway to capture on its rounded surface the distorted image of a woman removing her housecoat and putting on a bra.s.siere.

For a whole week we worked on Eyeball Boulevard. There were sentimental lumps in our chests, in our throats and in our pants as our eyes watered with frustration. Yet we showed not a sign, stoic, calm, concentrating on our labors, pretending to be unaware of the fancy homes, the enticing billboards, Cadillacs, kids, gardens, blonds and brunettes, restaurants, bars, sport clothes-everything. But secretly and discreetly our eyeb.a.l.l.s bulged and strained. Every pa.s.sing car was inspected for raised skirts, shorts, halters and low-cut dresses.

It was a wild, impossible week. Miracles occurred every day. From the orange juice canning plant at Plymouth all the way to Apopka, three miles up the road, we worked our way through the suburbs of Paradise. By a stroke of luck four Newc.o.c.ks had arrived just in time to take the Heat off the rest of us who in the meantime weren't missing a thing.

Because we know all about those beauties way out there that you don't even suspect. The traffic lights on a rain-swept Free World street that are like emeralds and rubies. The ordinary citizen strolling into a bank for some change who walks with the ponderous righteousness of a Caesar. A fat, homely woman walking a dog on a leash who becomes in the wink of a pa.s.sing eye a voluptuous Diana out on the hunt. Oh, the beer signs! The grocery stores! Shoes s.h.i.+ning there in the window!

Early on Tuesday afternoon the entire squad was herded across the road to do some work on the other side. For a moment we stood there in a cl.u.s.ter, waiting for the signal to cross while the guards s.h.i.+fted their positions. The traffic was thick and had slowed to a crawl as we stood there peeking through the windows of the Buicks, Chewies and Fords, looking at bulging bosoms, thighs, bellies swelling against the cloth of bright colored summer dresses.

Then a convertible crawled by in the congestion and stopped behind a truck. We didn't move. Our faces revealed no expression. But we could have reached out and touched the voluptuous blond who sat there cringing in the stare of our eyes, tugging at the hem of her skirt to pull it down below her knees.

The car began to move again, a succession of semitrailers, pickups and busses taking its place. There was a gap in the traffic, we were given the signal, crossed the road and resumed our work. But for a full fifteen minutes our heads reeled with the memory of the vision, our nostrils clogged with the lingering odor of perfume, of whiskey, the smell of her s.e.x and skin that had wafted out to us in a cloying, strangulating aroma. There wasn't a word in the Bull Gang as we went on with our ch.o.r.es. But we were busily inhaling, a.n.a.lyzing those various scents that contrasted so strongly with the hot, dirty, sweaty smells of our own world-lipstick, rouge, face powder, fresh clean skin, eau de cologne and Canadian Club.

Dragline said it; for all of us.

d.a.m.n. d.a.m.n. Ah been chain gangin' so long ah'm gittin' so's ah kin sniff jes like a bloodhound.

The following day Dragline appeared out on the road wearing a cracked, broken pair of sungla.s.ses that he had picked up somewhere in a ditch. One arm was gone and he had attached that side to his ear with a piece of string. Luke grinned at him and drawled, Well, lookee here. Ole Clark Gable's joined up with us. In disguise. But d.a.m.n if it don't look just like my old friend, Fat Boy.

Dragline scowled back at him.

Man, you got no 'magination a-tall. These here are mah Eyeballin' gla.s.ses. Like Boss G.o.dfrey's got. Ah'm a-gonna play peekaboo at all that young p.u.s.s.y struttin' up and down the road. With these here things on none of them f.u.c.kin' shotgun guards can tell which a-way ah'm a-lookin'. Get it, you ignoramus?

Then came that historic event branded on the collective memory of the camp, the incident which would be whispered about, rhymed and sung, subtracted, divided and multiplied into the pure, ultimate form of legend.

About three o'clock in the afternoon, a sixteen-year-old girl got off a school bus and came walking along the edge of the highway with her books in her arms, walking right through the middle of the Bull Gang as sa.s.sy as could be. She strutted by with swinging hips, with quivering b.r.e.a.s.t.s and eyes that pretended to look elsewhere, a saucy expression only half concealed in the deliberate pout of her lips.

Several impossibilities happened with staggering rapidity. The girl turned up the driveway, crossed the front lawn and entered the house. But in five minutes she came out again, wearing a scanty, two-piece bathing suit. With complete unconcern for the seventeen convicts and four Free Men not a hundred feet away who watched her with dizzy rapture, she spread a blanket on the lawn and languidly stretched out for a sun bath.

Dragline's mouth hung wide open, his shovel forgotten in his hands. Koko kept up a pretense of working, hissing a warning to Drag.

Watch it man. Boss G.o.dfrey'll be on your a.s.s.

f.u.c.k 'em all. Je-esus Christ! Would yuh look at that!

Careful Drag. You're gonna get chucked in the Gator as sure as h.e.l.l, Eyeballin' that way.

f.u.c.k 'em, ah say. Let 'em put me in the Box if they want. Ah done found mah woman. Jes as soon as ah gits outta this here joint ah'm comin' back here and marry up wif her. You see if ah don't.

I thought you were gonna marry Rita Hayworth.

Ah can always commit bigamy, cain't ah? Like that guy Blackie? That's one thing ah wouldn't mind doin' Time for.

Then Boss G.o.dfrey saw what it was that had paralyzed the squad. He walked down to the ditch bottom and leaned against a telephone pole standing next to the driveway, nervously swinging his Stick and glaring at us. But the shovels moved reluctantly. Even the guards were staring.

Then Boss G.o.dfrey himself turned his head to look. As though they were all wired together, seventeen heads automatically turned with his in obedience to a single, universal thought. He looked back again. We looked at our shovels again. At the end of the line, Koko, Luke and Dragline stood motionless, brazenly violating the strictest rules of The Hard Road.

Then the girl reached behind her back and untied her bra.s.siere strap. Lying on her stomach and propped up on her forearms, she pretended to read a movie magazine. Cursing violently, Dragline whipped away his Eyeballing gla.s.ses, threw them on the ground and jumped on them with wrath.

d.a.m.n them things! They're blockin' the scenery.

Luke muttered incoherently, his hands nervous on his shovel handle, Koko gazing with fixed enchantment, his shovel making ridiculous, meaningless motions in the sand.

Drag! Look! She's lookin' down in between her t.i.ts!

Ah see. Ah see. Oh no-no! Now she's scratchin' her behind! Oh, Lawd! What are you doin' up there? You tryin' to kill me? Look! She's Now she's scratchin' her behind! Oh, Lawd! What are you doin' up there? You tryin' to kill me? Look! She's grinnin' grinnin' at me! She's grinnin' right at at me! She's grinnin' right at me! me!

What are you talkin' about, Fat Boy? How do you know she's not grinnin' right at me? me?

Are you nuts? She knows a sure 'nough he-man when she sees one. Now look. She's sittin' up and holdin' the bra.s.siere with one hand!

I got eyes. I can see.

Ah got eyes too. But they're gonna drop out any minute now. Christ! One of the cups slipped down. Ah cain't stand it no more! Ah'm creamin' in mah jeans!

What a tease! What a no-good, G.o.d d.a.m.n tease!

Don't call mah fiancee a tease. You wanna git knocked on your silly lookin' a.s.s? Look. There she goes inside. Goodbye darlin'. Goodbye Lucille.

Lucille? How do you know her name's Lucille?

A gal like that? With a a.s.s and a pair of knockers like she's got? She jest gotta be named Lucille. That's all.

Then it was over. The girl tired of her game, stood up and went back inside the house, her b.u.t.tocks wriggling with one last, tantalizing twist. And the vision was gone.

We could hardly wait for Smoking Period so we could consult with each other, all of us wondering if it had been real or if we had all been bear-caught. We also wondered how many of us would have to spend a night or two in the Box.

That school girl had no idea of the extent of the power she wielded over us with the tyranny of her body. For weeks her detailed image remained in our memory. That very night the mere thought of her swinging hips sent all of us rolling over in our bunks to lay on our sides, surrept.i.tiously playing with ourselves with sly, innocent movements.

With great care we tried to keep the double bunks from swaying and informing the man above or below us of our l.u.s.t, writhing in shame at being compelled to make love to our own hard and calloused fists. Fretfully we grappled with the elusiveness of our fantasies as all around us other bunks were shuddering with an apparently sourceless energy. Our souls coiled and uncoiled within us, wafting upwards in ethereal wisps to tangle with the unclean odors of shoes and sweat and the smell of s.h.i.+t coming from the johns.

Here and there could be heard that drawn-out sound. Not the growl and the whinnying triumph of masculine o.r.g.a.s.m nor the quiet moan of satiated pa.s.sions nor even a sigh of peace, but merely the lightest breathing, held in, checked, smothering a heart that was beating, spasmodic and m.u.f.fled.

Then a strangled cry: Gettin' up here, Carr!

Yeah. Aw right. Get up.

The bulbs were still burning as incandescent suns...o...b..ting through the pit of snores. Men turned over on creaking beds, the sheets tangled in leg chains. Softly Carr padded back and forth in his crepe soled shoes, his heavy face grim and brooding, chewing on another cigar, reliving every detail of the actions, the emotions and hopes that had led him to that heist job in Jacksonville which had doomed him to fifteen years of sleeplessness.

Outside in the darkness I could hear the hounds. And Big Blue's baritone reached me as he howled at the full moon. I sat up in bed.

Gittyap!