Cool Hand Luke - Donn Pearce [9]
We were working quickly now, knowing for sure just how far we would have to go, anxious to knock off and get our beans. But as we drew closer we could hear singing coming from the church. Since today was Thursday it must have been a practice session for the choir. A tinny piano could be heard and a banjo and what was probably a trumpet. The voices were strident and hoarse, quavering in and out of harmony as they urgently pleaded and cajoled the Almighty with their gospel rhythms of passive ecstasy.
Drawing abreast of the parked trucks, the yo-yos lost their enthusiasm. We waited for the signal, reluctant to go beyond our food. Aimlessly we shuffled through the thick, hot sand, cutting away at nothing, mowing an invisible lawn.
Boss Godfrey walked up and down, casually swinging his Stick. Eventually he dug into his watch pocket with deliberate, clumsy fingers. Then he growled out:
Aw right. Let’s eat them beans.
Back came the fierce, unanimous cry:
Yes SUH!
Breaking formation we slowly herded across the road, waddling through the thick sand of the church yard towards our dinner. We threw down our tools, lit up a fast smoke, got a plate and stood in line, kneeling down beside the bean pot as Stupid Blondie served up a brick of soggy corn bread and poured molasses over it and Onion Head ladled out the watery boiled white beans.
But our faces were solemn as we stood in line, our heads turned towards the small rectangle of weather-beaten cardboard that had been inserted in one of the church windows to replace a broken pane. And as we each bent over for our rations we knelt in a kind of pagan genuflection. This was sacred ground to us and making us eat here was a deliberate act of heresy. For this was the very spot where they finally caught up with Dragline and with his buddy Cool Hand Luke.
5
AFTER WE FINISHED OUR BEANS WE sprawled in huddled groups in the shade of the scrub oaks. Rabbit had brought all our shirts and jackets from the cage truck and piled them on the ground. We sorted through the heap, identifying our own things by the big black numbers printed on the back and spreading them out like blankets. I got up and waded through the sand to get a drink from the water bucket and then I flopped down to take off the heavy, metal-shod State shoes and examine the latest cuts inflicted by my yo-yo. I massaged my feet and scratched the ant bites. The sweat and the dirt of the day had made mud inside my shoes, my feet shiny and smooth from the callouses worn by bare leather. Then I lay back and lit my pipe, using the shoes for a pillow and wriggling my toes in the air.
The others were dipping corn bread in the bean juice and the molasses remaining on their plates. Rubbing their spoons in the sand and putting them back in their pockets, they returned the plates to Onion Head who stacked them in the boxes. But I lay back and closed my eyes, listening to Blondie sharpening his yo-yo with the file from the tool truck and listening to the drone and accents of Dragline’s voice as he started another story.
I lay there sucking on my pipe, pretending that I was never going to have to get up. The sand under my back felt like a tropical beach. Or like the thick pile carpet of a penthouse boudoir. I listened to the roar and the swish of the traffic going by on the road and I thought of those better days to come, of that time when I would at last be free to resume my life of secret poetry, bizarre crimes, nocturnal adventures scattered here and there.
As I swatted