Cool Hand Luke - Donn Pearce [3]
2
AND EVERY DAY IT’S THE SAME THING. EXCEPT that today there was a difference. We did the same work, felt the same sensations, exercised the same kind of talk and gesture. But the day was paced by strange silences and a deep sense of embarrassment. Noises seemed sharper. Movements were stiffer and more pronounced. And from time to time an eye would turn up, roll from left to right and then turn down again.
This morning when we went out, the Bull Gang was put to work on what we call the Rattlesnake Road in honor of all those serpents which we have killed there, using the rawhide-skins for the wallets which we make on weekends and sell to the Free World for spending money. The Bull Gang was yo-yoing the grass on both sides of the road, the shotgun guards scattered all around us.
But the thing was: the Rattlesnake Road leads to the old nigger church, the one across the road from the lookout tower of the forest rangers.
To you a yo-yo would be a weed cutter, a light frame of unpainted wood with a handle fastened to an A-shaped yoke that supports a thin, straight, double-edge blade. It is swung from side to side, slashing through the weeds with vigorous forehand and backhand strokes. But to us a yo-yo is the pendulum of that great invisible clock that slowly ticks away the hours of our Time.
And today we covered more than two miles, working in a staggered line, each man behind the next and over to one side so that the lanes of work overlapped and so that if a yo-yo slipped out of a sweaty hand it would not hit anyone. We strolled along, shaving the shoulder of the highway and the armpit of the ditch, swinging our tools back and forth in a fast but natural rhythm broken only when a clump of dog fennels or palmettos was particularly tough and a man had to hack away with both hands. Or perhaps we would come to a patch of sandspurs or Florida cactus and a man would be hit by the flying debris. Swearing under his breath, he would lower his yo-yo and pull the spines out of his back and arms but first yelling out to the nearest guard,
Pullin‘ it out here, Boss!
Yeah. O.K. Gator. Pull it out.
All morning we swished along in our echelon formation like a squadron of airplanes soaring overhead through the blue, our yo-yos beating like mad propellers bearing us aloft. As always, the traffic roared right by us in both directions; the sedans and the jalopies, a farmer’s pickup, a Greyhound bus, the semi’s going by with their exhausts on high, their diesels pounding away.
As you rolled on by, soft and upholstered in your Cadillacs, heading south towards Miami and towards Paradise just beyond, you could look out from your air conditioned comfort and see the red flag stuck in the ground with the white letters “Slow Down—Men at Work.” Then you saw a guard standing at ease with his weight on one leg, his pistol hanging low in its holster, his shotgun dangling over his shoulder. Then the black and yellow trucks, Jim the Trustee carrying the water bucket with one arm held out for balance, more guards dressed in wrinkled uniforms of forest green and cowboy hats all sweated and stained, shapeless and worn. And all eyes were focused on the staggered column of barechested men, their skin burnt black, wearing striped caps cocked at every conceivable angle and light gray pants with a white vertical stripe down the legs.
You looked out at us through the windows, your eyes full of curiosity and disgust, your faces showing your fear. And that suited us just fine.
A school bus went by, two kids leaning out the windows and hollering something. A State-highway