Cool Hand Luke - Donn Pearce [34]
We sat and we stood and we waited. Luke came in, sweating from his exercise. Then he went to his bunk and got a towel, undressed and came back to the shower, walking on the balls of his feet. Seemingly unaware of our hushed presence, he soaped and rinsed himself methodically with graceful and deliberate drama. We watched every move. We noticed how big he had grown since his arrival, how dark his skin had become. We looked at his scars. We looked at his belly, still heaving from his exercise and noticeably concave.
He dried himself off, combed his hair in the fragment of broken mirror in the corner and studiously squeezed a blackhead out of his forehead. After squinting at his reflection a moment, he wrapped the towel around his waist and went back to his bunk. In a few minutes he came stalking back with his pants on. He stopped by the poker table, looked at the huddled family staring at him with awe, grinned and said—
Well. Is everybody ready?
Dragline jumped up and grabbed him by the arm, pulling him forward as he puffed up his chest and stuck his chin out with belligerent pride. Slapping his fist against his chest, he announced with gusto.
This here’s mah boy!
The uproar started. Last minute bets were made. We looked at Luke and then we looked at the massive pile of glittering eggs that filled the striped and muddy caps lined up on the table. Then we dug down for our last nickles and dimes, wrote out I.O.U.s against future money orders from home, mortgaged unfinished wallets and signed ourselves up for terms of indentured labor. All bets were covered by the Syndicate. If they lost they knew they would be in hock to the whole camp for the rest of their Time.
Everything was ready. Luke sat in the middle of the bench facing his three trainers on the other side of the table. He shuffled his feet. He twitched his toes. His stomach visibly palpitating, he swallowed continuously, his fingers trembling as they clutched at the edge of the table.
Solemnly Boss Shorty held his pocket watch, staring at the advancing seconds. At ten seconds to one o‘clock he held up his right hand. Then he dropped it.
There was a tremendous roar from fifty throats as the three Peelers each grabbed an egg and cracked it on the table, their fingers flying as they stripped off the pieces of shell and the thin membrane underneath. But they were barely able to keep ahead of Cool Hand’s jaws which were snapping and chomping so ferociously there was a very real occupational danger of losing a finger. Luke didn’t even bother to chew. His jaw muscles flexing with dynamic power, he crushed an egg with his teeth, gulped once and it was gone—his mouth gaping wide for another.
Desperately his assistants strove to keep ahead of him, counting aloud as each egg went down. Curly worked with professional, concentrated efficiency, holding each egg out on the flat of his open, stiffened hand. But Koko held out each one with reluctance, shy of his hazardous duty and flinching every time Luke grabbed an egg out of his hand. But for Dragline it was a labor of love. Grinning, his tongue rolling around his loose and flabby lips, he gently fed them into Luke’s gaping mouth with careful tenderness, his pinkie extended, like tossing a tidbit to some prehistoric monster which he alone had discovered, captured and domesticated.
Eight—nine—ten—
Our hearts sank in despair. Never had we seen such form, such coordination, such tactics and control. In the first three minutes twelve eggs disappeared, gobbled down like a turkey drinking water. Then Luke went into a steady,