On the Road - Jack Kerouac [32]
The old cop went on, sweetly reminiscing about the horrors of Alcatraz. “We used to march ‘em like an Army platoon to breakfast. Wasn’t one man out of step. Everything went like clockwork. You should have seen it. I was a guard there for twenty-two years. Never had any trouble. Those boys knew we meant business. A lot of fellows get soft guarding prisoners, and they’re the ones that usually get in trouble. Now you take you—from what I’ve been observing about you, you seem to me a little bit too leenent with the men.” He raised his pipe and looked at me sharp. “They take advantage of that, you know. ”
I knew that. I told him I wasn’t cut out to be a cop.
“Yes, but that’s the job that you applied for. Now you got to make up your mind one way or the other, or you’ll never get anywhere. It’s your duty. You’re sworn in. You can’t compromise with things like this. Law and order’s got to be kept.”
I didn’t know what to say; he was right; but all I wanted to do was sneak out into the night and disappear somewhere, and go and find out what everybody was doing all over the country.
The other cop, Sledge, was tall, muscular, with a black-haired crew-cut and a nervous twitch in his neck—like a boxer who’s always punching one fist into another. He rigged himself out like a Texas Ranger of old. He wore a revolver down low, with ammunition belt, and carried a small quirt of some kind, and pieces of leather hanging everywhere, like a walking torture chamber: shiny shoes, low-hanging jacket, cocky hat, everything but boots. He was always showing me holds—reaching down under my crotch and lifting me up nimbly. In point of strength I could have thrown him clear to the ceiling with the same hold, and I knew it well; but I never let him know for fear he’d want a wrestling match. A wrestling match with a guy like that would end up in shooting. I’m sure he was a better shot; I’d never had a gun in my life. It scared me even to load one. He desperately wanted to make arrests. One night we were alone on duty and he came back red-faced mad.
“I told some boys in there to keep quiet and they’re still making noise. I told them twice. I always give a man two chances. Not three. You come with me and I’m going back there and arrest them.”
“Well, let me give them a third chance,” I said. “I’ll talk to them.”
“No, sir, I never gave a man more than two chances.” I sighed. Here we go. We went to the offending room, and Sledge opened the door and told everybody to file out. It was embarrassing. Every single one of us was blushing. This is the story of America. Everybody’s doing what they think they’re supposed to do. So what if a bunch of men talk in loud voices and drink the night? But Sledge wanted to prove something. He made sure to bring me along in case they jumped him. They might have. They were all brothers, all from Alabama. We strolled back to the station, Sledge in front and me in back.
One of the boys said to me, “Tell that crotch-eared mean-ass to take it easy on us. We might get fired for this and never get to Okinawa.”
“I’ll talk to him.”
In the station I told Sledge to forget it. He said, for everybody to hear, and blushing, “I don’t give anybody no more than two chances.”
“What the hail,” said the Alabaman, “what difference does it make? We might lose our jobs.” Sledge said nothing and filled out the arrest forms. He arrested only one of them; he called the prowl car in town. They