Cool Hand Luke - Donn Pearce [55]
Hey, Rabbit! Catch!
Luke tossed the snake up on the shoulder, spinning it towards Rabbit who dropped his bucket, let out a screech and ran across the road towards Boss Godfrey who stood there in front of the truck without moving, one hand in his pocket rattling his change, the other hand leaning on his Walking Stick.
And I will always remember Luke the way he looked that foggy morning: lazily holding a deadly serpent in his hand, its jaws agape and hissing as it twisted and knotted and struck at the dim and hazy sun. For that was an exact portrait of the man named Cool Hand Luke.
14
THAT SATURDAY MORNING LUKE TOOK OUT his banjo right after breakfast and began playing a tune. I lay on my bunk, listening in wonder to the way he could carry two different melodies at the same time. I could never understand how so many different sounds could come from only four strings. But there was something magical in everything Luke did. And if he had been just another ordinary convict I wouldn’t have said anything. But I liked Luke. I had to warn him.
Luke? Listen. It’s none of my business what you do. But I’ve been chain ganging a long time and I’d just like to tip you off. That was a bad thing you did the other day. Picking up the Man’s cane like that. Hell. You might just as well walk up to him, grab him by the balls and pull.
But Luke just smiled and closed his eyes, his fingers flying on in a tinkling blur.
Yeah, Sailor. You’re right.
Why don’t you take it easy a little bit. You don’t have much Time to do. Hell, you’ll be out of here before you know it.
Take it easy? Why, Sailor. I’m surprised at you. You know damn well I always play it real cool.
I gave up. There was no talking to Luke. He was what he was. But there were others who could see what I saw. Even Dragline grew more and more anxious out on the Road, noticeably reluctant to work with him, growing quiet and sullen, concentrating on his work. Today in the church yard, Dragline expressed those same feelings to the Bull Gang as he was telling us his version of the story:
Ah’m tellin‘ yuh. He had the devil in him. Sometimes ah think he wa’n’t even human. Way he could play that fuckin‘ banjo now. Ah mean, playin’ is one thing. Any old ass hole can play. But he didn’t play. He didn’t even have to touch the strings. Just tickled ‘em a little bit while he was thinkin’ of somethin‘ else. No suh. It was the devil that did the playin’. Him and Luke must have made some kind of a deal somewhere along the line. Ah don’t know what. Thar’s no tellin‘. But ah knows this. Luke was mad at God. Yeah, he was. He was just natcherly mad at him. Crazy, that’s what. Just plain crazy. Got shot up too many times. Ah mean he wasn’t really mean or ornery or nothin’. He was a sinner ah reckon, yeah. But not what you’d call—you know what ah mean. Mad at God? Hell, that’s for Judases and Jonahs and Romans and guys like that there.
After the weekend we went back out on the Road again. And we were put into a Shit Ditch again. The morning passed as we gripped the sweaty, slippery handles of our bush axes, swearing under our breaths, fighting the horse flies and the mosquitoes, slashing away at the tangled underbrush. In the afternoon a thunder storm began to approach over the horizon, pushing a pocket of hot, humid air before it.
The storm drew closer, lightning flashing on the horizon, thunder banging and exploding. Ugly clouds ruffled towards us, the wind suddenly picking up force and blowing its hot breath over our bodies. Luke paused and looked up at the storm, smiling at it with some secret amusement. Stabbing his bush axe into the water and mud so it stood up vertically, he called out to the nearest guard—
Wipin‘ it off here, Boss!
Taking off his cap, he wiped his face with it, rubbing the sweat out of his eyes. Then he put it back on his head, pulling the bill down and over at a cocky angle. Again the thunder banged and echoed within the deep hollowness of a cloud.