Cool Hand Luke - Donn Pearce [54]
Movin‘on up here, Boss!
Yeah, Sailor. Move on up.
I stepped out on the road and moved in a circle around the two of them, discreetly turning my head to look but only when I was well on the other side. Luke still stood there, smiling, holding the cane in one hand, the bush axe in the other. But Boss Godfrey continued to light his cigar, puffing on it several times, blowing out the smoke, then putting the flame to the tip once again. Satisfied, he tossed away the match and put the box in his shirt pocket. He shifted the cigar in his mouth, licking the side of it twice and then replacing it. Without a word, he reached out and took the Walking Stick from Luke’s hand, putting the end on the edge of the road, shifting his weight and leaning on it. Luke called out to the guards and moved forward, his shoes slurping and clumping behind me.
I went back to work, not daring to ogle or show any signs of wonder at the phenomenal event I had just witnessed. I kept my eyes on the ground. I cut bushes and said nothing.
It was nearly Bean Time. Jim and Rabbit moved the two trucks to a dry spot a few blocks up the road and got things ready. With his pocket knife and with an axe from the tool truck, Jim cut the bottom of the alligator turtle’s shell and dressed out the meat. Sticking the chunks on a green branch, he began to cook it over the fire that Rabbit had built, preparing it for the Free Man’s dinner.
The Bull Gang was quiet as we ate our beans. Working in a Shit Ditch was a demoralizing job and despite the heat we were waterlogged and chilled, slimy and disgusted. Once in a while a man would stand up to get the file and begin sharpening his bush axe. But the rest of us just sat, lay back on our jackets, stared up at the sky and smoked. Onion Head and Stupid Blondie stacked up the bean plates in the box and put away the corn bread and molasses. Then Onion Head went over to the remains of the turtle’s carcass, squatting down to poke at the shell and the intestines with a stick and then nudging the severed head through the grass.
Look! Look at that son of a bitch! Lookee here!
Again the turtle’s mouth had opened, the big eyes staring as slowly the jaws began to shut, clamping down hard. Onion Head raised up the stick, looking at the ferocious head which clung to it, blood still dripping from the severed neck.
Cool Hand Luke lay on the ground leaning on one elbow. He looked over and muttered half aloud.
Bite it brother. Bite hard. Real hard.
Then the stick cracked and broke, the turtle’s head falling to the ground.
We went back to work. But for the rest of the day I tried to stay away from Luke. He scared me. I didn’t like his carelessness, his sense of humor or his sacrilege.
But a few days later I found myself once again working just behind him and over to his right. We were sent out to the Rattlesnake Road, right out there where we were this morning. And again we were yo-yoing, working in an echelon formation.
It was a damp and foggy morning. About two hours after we started working we came to a patch of swamp, the ditch filled with marsh grass, the water just deep enough to reach our ankles. Rhythmically we swung our tools back and forth, our feet cold, our shoes heavy and slimy, our thoughts dim and far away.
Luke stopped in mid-stroke and quickly jabbed his tool into the water, holding the blade of his yo-yo down on the head of a rattlesnake whose long yellow and brown body rose to the surface not six feet in front of me, thrashing wildly. I leaped back, nearly getting hit by the yo-yo swinging behind me. But Luke just stood there. Grinning, he called out to Boss Paul—
Pickin‘ it up here, Boss!
Boss Paul didn’t answer, just standing with his shotgun under the crook of his arm and smiling. Luke reached down, grabbed the snake by the tail and picked it up as cool as you please, holding it a long moment as it twisted