Cool Hand Luke - Donn Pearce [35]
—twenty seven—twenty seconds to go—ten seconds to go—and—twenty-eight—twenty seconds to go—ten seconds to go—and—twenty-nine—
Koko’s voice was the only sound. The rest of us stood, sat or squatted in motionless postures. Stupid Blondie had his mouth open. Possum chewed his fingernails. Babalugats sat there with a fixed grin on his face. Tramp was wringing his cap. Rabbit had an unlighted cigarette dangling loosely in his lips, his eyes bulging out of his head. Onion Head’s eyes were shut, his lips moving silently. Some of us had our arms folded over our chests, our heads bowed in humility. Others stood on one leg, their hands in their pockets. But Society Red couldn’t take it any more and got up to pace the floor of the Building.
In the meantime Luke had become a Thing, an Appetite. He was nothing but mouth, stomach and rectum—the beginning, the middle and the end.
After the thirty-second egg he stopped. Slowly he got up from the table, stretched his arms over his head and yawned, his stomach bulging as though he were pregnant. Deliberately he began to waddle towards the water faucet. We gasped aloud. This was a man tottering at the brink of the precipice. But he fooled us, only rinsing his mouth out and gargling, without swallowing anything.
But as he leaned over for another mouthful of water, his hand cupped beneath the faucet, he let one go, breaking wind with a clear, prolonged note, a trumpet blast of triumph and bravura. And we panicked. We choked for breath, clutched each other in dismay and headed for the door in a stumbling stampede. Outside, the guards on the platforms nervously fingered their weapons, startled by the laughing, crying, shouting, cheering and jeering mob that had rushed out the door to spread out over the lawn, only gradually returning to peer back inside with exaggerated caution and alarm.
Luke paced up and down the Building, stretching and gingerly raising first one leg and then the other. Back and forth he walked, pausing every so often to let one go with another blast. Time passed. We began to squirm. But Luke seemed in no hurry at all, calmly strolling up and down with total nonchalance. Fifteen precious minutes went by. We were in agony. Then he took his place at the table and started eating again. The air having cleared and no longer toxic, we cautiously crept back inside.
Slowly now, with obvious effort, Luke resumed his consumption rate of one egg every two minutes. Finally only eight were left. But he only had nine minutes to go. And it was easy to see that he was stalled. Only with the greatest effort could he swallow. His stomach was horribly swollen. Dragline watched him, his lips twisted all out of shape. Beads of sweat broke out on his face. No one spoke. Koko began to massage Luke’s neck and shoulders. Then Curly helped him to his feet and with Dragline on the other side, walked him up and down the floor, Dragline talking to him, his voice urgent with desperate pleading.
Come on boy. Come on, Darlin‘. You can do it. Just give yourself a little time. Relax that old belly. Just let it sag a little and enjoy itself. Only eight more, old buddy. Eight more between you and everlastin’ glory. Just eight little ole eggs. Pigeon eggs, that’s all. Practically fish eggs, you might say.
They returned him to the bench, making Luke unbutton his pants and anxiously checking the time with Koko. Only four minutes. Gingerly Drag peeled an egg and offered it to Luke, his toothless lips pouted in the shape of a tender kiss.
Come on baby. Come on. Don’t be that way. Open your little ole, gator tooth mouth.
Then Luke began to eat. After the first egg he seemed to pick up speed, downing one after the other with growing inspiration.
And it happened. We saw it happen. We dug our nails into