Cool Hand Luke - Donn Pearce [2]
Every night the trucks bounce over the clay road through the groves, pulling up on the asphalt apron, the guards dismounting and spreading to all sides. We wait. At the signal from the Walking Boss everyone clambers out and lines up along the sidewalk in front of the gate, standing with his back turned and his arms raised. Squad by squad we are shaken down, each man standing with his pockets turned inside out. His spoon, comb, tobacco can and change are all held in his cap which is always removed in deference to the Captain who is sitting in a rocking chair on the porch of his Office. After we are patted, rubbed and felt, the final tap on the shoulder tells us we may lower our arms.
Deep inside the Building we can hear the Wicker Man tapping and banging away to test the floors and the walls and dragging his broom handle across the chain link wire mesh of the windows. And that staccato melody of the evening echoes far over the groves like drunken jackhammers repairing the sky.
Another signal. The gate is swung open and we march through in single file, each man turning his head to speak over his shoulder, counting off as clearly as possible so the next man won’t misunderstand. The Yard Man stands right beside the gate and a swift kick is the cost of a mistake. And as we count our voices are different just as we are different. There are growls, yells, threats, questions, statements, murmurs—
ONE Two three/FOUR! (five) Six?
Once inside the gate we charge up the steps and into the Building, our songs and shouts overlapping and entangled as we run in to open lockers, to wait in line in front of the one faucet in the Building to rinse the mud off our faces, to take a quick piss in little semicircles huddled together shoulder to shoulder around the johns; two, three and even four to the bowl.
Then we rush out again, lining up for supper at the Messhall door. But the Silent System prevails. Jammed in tight on one of the benches I sit in meditation, feeling the shoulders and arms of the men on either side of me as I eat my meal of potato stew and beans, corn bread and collards. The only sounds are the scraping of shoes on the concrete floor, the clanking of tablespoons on metal plates. After I finish I go outside and rinse my spoon under the faucet in the yard and then I put it back in my hip pocket.
At the porch of the Building I stoop and remove my shoes, empty the contents of my pockets into my cap and get in the line which is wending its way past Carr, the convict Floorwalker. When my turn comes I hand my shoes to Carr who examines them for contraband and then throws them through the door. I turn my back and raise my arms as he pokes through the things in my cap, gives me a fast frisk and growls in my ear. Fourteen. I go through the door, pick up my shoes and repeat the number to the Wicker Man. He grumbles back at me and makes a mark. Fourteen.
When everyone is safely tucked inside, the double doors are closed and barred. Just as the last bolt is shot home, the sun drops below the horizon.
And we always spend our evenings at home. Ours is a world without carpets or curtains, without chairs, sinks or privacy. Yet we shave every day and brush our teeth and somehow manage to carry on lives which, although but a pale imitation of yours, still retain some of its marvels. We read the funnies and know the football scores. In subdued murmurs we gossip and argue and recite. Four of us have been permitted to own radios that whisper the latest tunes. The four johns are always busy. There are loafers, comedians, gamblers, craftsmen and students. And those who still have someone waiting for them, are writing letters home.
So we build our Time. Each of our days is connected to the other by all sorts of personal