Cool Hand Luke - Donn Pearce [6]
Aw. All right, Drag. Ah’ll sharpen it up for you at Bean Time.
By then the guards had relaxed, their grips no longer tight on their gun stocks. But we knew better than to go too far. There was a few minutes more of uninhibited talking and gestures and then the work was resumed, everyone taking his place without a word and beginning to swing his yo-yo, the Bull Gang slowly moving past the Walking Boss who stood on the shoulder of the road, leaning on his cane.
For another hour we walked along, swinging our tools back and forth, the traffic roaring along beside us. As usual, I was somewhere in the middle, lost in my daydreams about the past, once again going over all the things that I knew about Cool Hand Luke. And yet at the same time, more than anything else, I was probably worrying about the blister that was beginning on the side of my thumb, reaching out with one hand to slice away some milkweeds and then on the return stroke changing hands to trim a clump of grass close to the ground.
By the sun and by practice, we could tell it was nearly ten o‘clock. Eyes began to question. The yo-yos began to waver. Heads slyly turned towards Dragline, who has a phenomenal ability to guess the time, searching his attitude for some sign.
The Walking Boss strolled along the edge of the road, looking at the passing cars, lazily swinging his Stick. With a slow and idle movement he pulled at the braided leather fob and looked down at his pocket watch. Slowly he stuffed it back and continued strolling. After a long pause, lazily, with a deep, gutteral growl, he drawled out,
Aw right. Let’s smoke ‘em up.
Back came the reply with a sharp, high note of exuberance resounding from all directions—
Yes suh!
Eagerly we dug into our sweaty pockets and took out the battered, rusty pipe tobacco cans that we all carry on our hips. But inside is the sharp and bitter, iodineflavored State tobacco that is issued to us once a week. Pressed down on top is a book of cigarette papers and a small box of wooden matches. Some of us squatted on our haunches, West Florida style. Some of us sat, knelt or lay down flat on our backs. We rolled our smokes or stuffed our pipes, the clever ones always keeping two or three rolled up in advance in their tobacco cans so that no time at all would be lost. The wealthy ones didn’t have to bother since they always smoke Free World tailor-mades.
For fifteen minutes we rested, drinking in the smoke. Again and again we went over the details of the adventure with the Diamond Back, describing every aspect to each other, every gesture, expression and emotion. We envied Stupid Blondie’s luck, ridiculed Cottontop’s idiocy, poked mild and careful fun at Dragline’s tripping over his own shackles. And then again we picked up the threads of our stories and our lies exactly where we had left off, as though we hadn’t been interrupted by several hours of labor in the sun.
But again there was a difference. There was a certain restraint in our voices, occasional glances of respect and awe in Dragline’s direction.
Soon we felt restless. We knew the time had come, our eyes discreetly following the Walking Boss, waiting for that gesture. When he reached for his watch we all tensed. But he put it back again, unconcerned, looking off at we knew not what. And then when we least expected it, his voice growled out to us, deep, slow and lazy, cadenced and intoned like a song.
Aw—right—. It’s that time.
Stiffly we stood up, lighting that last smoke we are permitted to carry and snapping shut the lids of our cans and putting them away. Stretching, making the first few, meaningless swings at nothing to limber up, mechanically our arms resumed the rhythmic swing of the day, the sweat again beginning to flow, our eyes once again fixed on that spot just in front of our toes.
3
BOSS GODFREY STROLLED ALONG THE EDGE of the pavement swinging his