Cool Hand Luke - Donn Pearce [58]
The last ones to be put in the Cooler were Loudmouth Steve and Cottontop for bickering and arguing and finally fighting out on the road. The one before that was Ugly Red who found a bottle in a ditch with an inch of whiskey in the bottom. A guard spotted him as he tried to sneak a quick drink while squatting on his knees and pretending to take a piss. But since then there had been no fights, no arguments, no broken tool handles. We were unaware of any plots.
One by one the Walking Boss shook us down. I could hear the man next to me let out his breath as he lowered his arms, turned around and began taking the things out of his cap and putting them back in his pockets. Then the Walking Boss was poking through my own cap as I held it up. Slowly I felt his hands rub along my upraised arms, down my sides, slap at my pockets, run down both sides of my left leg and then my right leg. A second’s pause. A tap on the right shoulder. Then I too let out my breath and relaxed, immediately feeling righteous and wondering who had been the naughty one, the poor, mischievous bastard who had to suffer for his sins.
The Captain and the Yard Man stood about twenty feet behind us, waiting and saying nothing. Behind them stood Boss Shorty with his pump repeater. One of the trustees was busy putting a gallon of water and a chamber pot inside the Box.
But Boss Godfrey continued down the line until the whole squad had been shaken down. Again we held our breaths, our stomachs tightening. Slowly Boss Godfrey strolled towards the Captain who took a drag on his cigarette and spit three times.
With a faint growl, Boss Godfrey spoke.
Luke. Fall out.
He knew what he had to do. Without a word he stepped out of line and walked along the fence down to the Box, pulling his shirt and jacket off as he went. Stepping behind the laticework screen he took off his pants and shoes, the Trustee taking away all his clothes as he slipped the old-fashioned night shirt over his head. Luke knew better than to ask any questions. Nor did he expect any explanations.
He stepped inside the Box. The Yard Man slammed the door and padlocked it. The Trustee slid the heavy bar in place.
Shuffling back to the gate, the Yard Man swung it open, his false teeth clicking as we counted through. Everything went on as usual. There was nothing for anyone to do or say. There were no questions to ask. For we all knew that Luke had been put in the Box because he might try to escape in order to attend his mother’s funeral.
That night, when any of us got up to use the john, we took a quick peek through the bars and the screens on the windows before lying down again. Outside, the light was burning.
We all knew about the Box. We knew what Luke was feeling as he lay there on the rough wooden floor, shivering in the cold night air, slapping at the mosquitoes that swarmed in, attracted by the light outside the grating. We knew that he was stiff and cramped and unable to sleep. He was tired and dirty from his day on the Road. He was hungry and wanted a smoke.
But we still didn’t know Luke. We didn’t know him at all.
One of the cooks told us what happened. Early the next morning, before the First Bell, the Yard Man went out with the cook and a guard and opened the Box in order to give Luke a few catheads, to dump his slop bucket and give him some fresh water. But when the door was unlocked and swung back, they saw Luke lying there fast asleep, his head towards the door.
The Yard Man flew into a rage and began kicking Luke in the face.
You son of a bitch! Stand up! Stand up when I come in! You hear me? Stand up back there like you’re s‘posed to!
Luke sprang to his feet, shaking his head, groping for the wall of the Box, blood trickling from a cut on his lip and streaming down the front of his night shirt. Swaying and blinking his eyes, he stood there, the Yard Man scowling