Cool Hand Luke - Donn Pearce [14]
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