A herd of wild elephants foraging in the African jungle wouldn’t make as much noise as we did stripping sorghum cane. The task was threefold and Boss Nobles left it to me to get us organized. I chose the fastest workers to do the cutting and the slower ones to handle the loading. Everybody in the squad helped strip the razor-sharp leaves off the cane going down the rows. Coming back, we split up into sections. The cutters hewed the stalks while the loaders came behind gathering and loading it onto the trailers. When the loaders fell behind, we cutters helped load to keep them caught up.
When we stripped in the afternoon it wasn’t too bad, but not so in the early morning when the cane was still wet with dew and the leaves let go reluctantly. My hands were semi-soft from the moisture and almost every time I reached up to the top of a stalk to strip it down, I cut them. My bloody palms looked like they had been sliced repeatedly with a razor blade. I ripped off a piece of my pants leg and wrapped it around my palms. When we knocked off for lunch and got out on the turnrow headed for the building, I noticed I wasn’t the only one.
Once we reached the building and got to the tank I went straight to the face basin. After washing my hands, I saw what a real mess they were. Cadlack, the lead row in Number 3 hoe, came over, “Say Race, is dat cane messin up y’all’s hans lak it is ours?” Instead of answering, I just showed my sliced palms to him. “Whut we gon do man?”
“I don’t know whut we gon do. I jes know whut I’m gon do.”
“Well, whut ya gon do man?”
“I ain’ decided yet.”
“When ya do, lemme know. Fuck dis shit!” and he walked away.
The turnout bell rang. Back to the cane field. After lunch we quickly finished up where we had left off and caught another set. My hands were bleeding again from more fresh cuts. About midway I stopped, “Boss Nobles, my hands is in bad shape,” turning my palms up for him to see, “an some uv the others is too.”
After looking at my hands he shook his head. “I see ‘em, Racehoss, but I flat don’t know whut to tell you, ‘cept y’all take yore time an try to be careful strippin them leaves.”
The last part was okay, but there was no way we could take our time. Not us. I worked on a little farther, thought about the pisser, and dropped my cane knife. Fuck it! I quit! And sat down on my row.
The rest of the squad quit. It was a shame this had to happen under Boss Nobles, but we wouldn’t have done it under the Band. This wasn’t the first time our hands had been bloody. We always stripped cane bare handed, but under Boss Band nothing was supposed to hurt. If it did, we kept it to ourselves.
Soon, squad after squad sat down in the middle of their rows and placed their hands over their heads like we had done. For once, we banded together. The call went out, “Them nigguhs dun bucked!”
Meanwhile, Cap’n Smooth told the bosses, “Roun ‘em all up in one bret an gather up them cane knives.” Then he ordered security phase two, “Y’all drive ‘em tractors an trailers up heah alongside these nigguhs an park ‘em,” talking to the convict tractor drivers who were hauling the cane to the syrup mill. They quickly obeyed his orders and, soon as they completed the operation, he ordered them to sit with us.
“Suma you bosses wit them shotguns, tie yore hosses an git up on ‘em trailers.” Like commandos, they responded and took their posts. Boss Nobles was excluded, he only carried a revolver. The “commandos” took it a step further and laid the hammers back.
With all secured, Cap’n Smooth directed his attention to us. “If you nigguhs don’t git up offa y’all’s asses an git back to wek, you gonna wish you hadda.” He walked Ol’ Cherry, his big strawberry roan, right into the crowd. We shifted and slid left and right to keep from being stepped on. He stopped in the center of the circle, “You Gotdam impudent bastards betta git up offa y’all’s asses an git back to wek! Y’all hear me?!”
We didn’t budge. He walked Cherry throughout the crowd. We squirmed, twisted, and reshuffled to stay out of her path. He shot a glance at some of the other bosses who were still on horseback. They got the message and began walking their horses in and out of the crowd, hitting us with the reins, “Git up offa y’all’s asses an git to wek!” They quickly got back in their positions by the trailers when they saw Big Devil’s car coming, which left Cap’n Smooth in the center of the circle alone.
Dust was still flying when Big Devil and three pickups loaded with officers and bosses halted on the turnrow in front of us. Some were carrying baseball bats and axe handles. Big Devil sure didn’t have on the right kind of shoes for the terrain because he kept tripping over the cane stubs. When he got to us, “Who started this shit?!” After no reply, “Cap’n, you know who started it?”
“Well, Warden, that Number 1 hoe wuz the one to quit first, if thas whutcha mean.”
He tried to get Boss Nobles to single one of us out, but he wouldn’t. He told the warden we all quit at the same time. Determined to find out “who,” he used another tactic. “Alla you Number 1 nigguhs that wanna go back to wek, stand up.”
Nobody moved.
“Any the resta you nigguhs that wanna go back to wek, stand up,” surveying us.
We all remained still. He motioned back to the waiting bosses to move in closer with their bats and axe handles, then told Cap’n Smooth to “git outta the middle uv ‘em.” Every available man had been brought along, even the mess steward. Big Devil called to Cap’n Foots, “Cap’n Franklin, brang ‘em cattle prods outta the back seat uv my car.”
Hearing that, we nervously shifted positions a little. Cap’n Foots delivered the half-dozen or so “stingers,” and Big Devil handed one to whatever bosses happened to be standing nearest him and ordered “use ‘em.” Armed with a bat in one hand and a battery-operated cattle prod in the other, this bunch started kicking and jabbing those on the outer perimeter.
Then they moved into the inner circle and poked us with indiscriminately, trying to elicit a response of some kind they could really attack. After this failed, Big Devil ordered them to stop. He pulled back most of his key officers for a conference and decided it was best for us to stay in the field until things were resolved. “Don’t want them nigguhs a-tearin up ‘at buildin.” A good two hours had passed since the sit-down began and nobody had asked us why yet.
I suppose it was prison policy to report a mass rebellion such as this to the bigwigs at the Walls, because before long we heard a plane buzzing overhead. It was the Texas Prison System’s own. The horses stirred uneasily as the small aircraft circled the field at low altitude and landed on one of the turnrows about a mile away. Big Devil was there waiting A man got out, hurriedly entered the awaiting vehicle and they drove away from us.
The unit’s entire security force had assembled in the field, forming a huge ring around us. The bosses pulled some trailers together on the turnrow and formed a platform. Car doors opened, the visitor and Big Devil slowly walked briskly toward the platform and mounted.
“My name is Jack Heard. I’m the Assistant Director. I’m here to find out why y’all refuse to work. I talked to the warden, now I wanna hear what you men gotta say. I want somebody to tell me why you quit.”
Silence. He must be crazy asking someone to stand up and talk in front of all these guards and Big Devil to boot. What’s going to happen to the one that does it? He sure as hell won’t fly back to the Walls with him.
He repeatedly asked that somebody stand up and speak, but nobody would. Finally, “If somebody wants to speak up, I give you my word nothing’s gonna happen to you for it. Is anybody gonna come forward and speak up or am I gonna have to issue orders to put y’all back to work?”
Most of the cons in my squad cast their glances at me. I took a moment to weigh the promise he had made and stood up. One hoe became the voice for every hoe.
He beckoned me to come forward. “What’s your name?”
“They call me Racehoss, Sir.”
Big Devil added, “This is the lead row nigguh in the Number 1 hoe squad.”
“You wanna tell me why you refuse to work?”
“Yessir.”
“Well, tell me then.”
“Sir, I ain’ sittin down cuz I don’t wanna work. It’s cuz my hands is all cut up,” showing them to him. To my surprise, Cap Rock walked up and showed his. Then all the rest raised theirs to show.
“How’d this happen? Why don’t y’all use gloves?”
“Whut caused it is the sharp edges on the cane leaves, Sir. When they wet, it’s hard to strip ‘em off without cuttin our hands and fingers nearly to the bone. We don’t have no gloves, Sir. They don’t sell ‘em in our commissary, an even if they did, mosta us couldn’ buy a pair.”
He looked at Big Devil, “How come you don’t have gloves for this type of work?”
Big Devil squirmed, “We got ‘em on order Mr. Heard, we ain’ received ‘em yet.”
His decision was quick, “Take these men to the building. I don’t want ‘em back out here til you get gloves. Is that clear?”
“Yessir, Mr. Heard,” Big Devil answered in a hurry.
After the head count we started walking down the turnrow. Mr. Heard stopped us, “Hey! Y’all come on back here and get on these trailers.” We wheeled around like a bunch of show horses, made a dash for the trailers, and loaded onto them for our first ride ever from the fields to the building.
For supper that evening we got two pork chops apiece, mashed potatoes, gravy, biscuits, and apple pie for dessert. All we could eat!
This strike ended quite unlike the “buck” that time when it was freezing and we refused to go to the spinach patch to pick the frozen shit. After they rang the turnout bell, the inside picket boss hollered, “Number 1!”
Since I was supposed to be the first man out, I said, “I ain’t goin.”
“One!”
“I ain’t goin.”
“I’m gonna call that number again an you nigguhs betta git to goin! ONE!!”
I didn’t move and no one else did, except Hollywood. He was the only man standing in the hallway. Cap’n Smooth told him to go on back in his tank and took me to the pisser for “agitating.” When Big Devil found out about it, he gave Hollywood a job in the building and punished all the hoe squads.
No doubt Jack Heard’s presence had an influence on the outcome, but the 100 percent seemed to make a difference. We stopped fighting among ourselves long enough to enter into an unknown territory—unity—and become a force with which to be reckoned.
About nine thirty the following morning, a truck arrived from the Walls. The commissary clerk (Hollywood) and the turnkey unloaded a dozen cardboard boxes full of cloth gloves made by the Goree girls. We were each issued a pair, and we waited for the turnout bell while reading our love notes written inside the fingers.
Once out the backgate, Boss Nobles had me head for the trailers. We were going to ride to the field! Big Devil purposely had them parked a good three or four city blocks from the backgate, just to show he was still on the throne. As we rode to the field, I thought about Boss Band. He had probably turned over in his grave!
The work situation in the fields changed dramatically. Boss Nobles always had treated us like men, but now he acted proud to be our boss. The other squads looked up to and admired us. We became the big brothers in the field. I was able to slow the work pace down so all the squads could keep up. Something totally unacceptable in the past.
Boss Nobles lifted the silent system that we had worked under for so long, and, as a result, there was no longer the threat of death if one of us stopped working long enough to roll a cigarette. He streamlined the row-hacking operation too. He stopped us from hacking down one side of our row all the way to the end and hacking down the other side coming back. Since we walked right down the top of the row anyway, he convinced Cap’n Smooth we could cover more ground if allowed to slow down a little and hack both sides of our rows while going down them. He was more concerned with the quality of our work than how fast we did it. Of course, picking cotton was still every man for himself and we still had to face the Hog Law.
Boss Nobles struck up a mild friendship with the old boss over the Number 5 hoe squad. Boss Leaks was too funny to pass up and I liked to listen to him when we worked beside his squad. They weren’t anything to compare to us, but they were good workers.
He never stayed close to them like the other bosses did. He’d be at least twenty-five yards behind. His dialogue was filled with threats. By two o’clock he’d cut all his cons out for the day. But rarely did he ever do it at the backgate.
Totally unconcerned, “You nigguhs betta blacken dem rows, blacken ‘em, I tell you. You nigguhs go ta sinkin dem hoes up to th’ eye. Go to movin dat dirt roun lak you aim ta do sump’n. Now I know y’all is all bad an I’m makin suma y’all mad. But I don’t give a damn. Y’all ain’ th’ baddest nigguhs I dun evuh seed. I seed a whole lotsa nigguhs badder’n y’all is.
“I bet evuh one a you ol’ thangs is down heah fer murder ta let y’all tell it. Shit, th’ only thang y’all evuh dun kilt is biscuits in dat man’s messhall. Git ta wek an git dem rows on ‘way frum heah!! I bet y’all thank I’m gon follow y’all’s black asses all over dis man’s plantation an not do sump’n ta you. I kin tell you rat now, thas a damn lie! Jes wait til we git ta dat backgate.”
Boss Leaks had been carrying the Number 5 hoe squad for many years, but he couldn’t name four cons who worked under him. Well beyond the sixty-year mark, he had a grubby old prospector look about him. He always needed a shave and his clothes were always dirty, stained with missed tobacco spits. He had a terrible odor and a running sore on the right cheek of his ass. A big wet spot showed through the seat of his pants whenever he wasn’t in the saddle.
He had worked around black cons for so long he developed the mannerisms and even talked like them. He had more experience guarding convicts than any of the field bosses. Prior to coming to Retrieve, he served twenty years as a guard at Angola Prison in Louisiana, had retired and drew a pension. He didn’t talk much with the other bosses, but when he did he loved to talk about Louisiana. The cons in his squad who had served time in Angola or happened to be from Louisiana had it made. All they had to do was let him talk and throw in an occasional “thas right Boss,” and go through the motions of working.
That is, until he saw Big Devil’s car in the fields. When that happened, he immediately shifted his conversation to chewing the con out for “laggin back,” threatening to cut him out at the backgate if he didn’t tighten up.
I overhead him doing that one day with Braggs, one of the few he knew by name. He was carrying on a two-to-five-year Louisiana conversation with him. Somehow, Big Devil’s car got by him and he didn’t see it in time to straighten his act. He pulled his car right behind our two squads and parked.
“Boss Leaks!” the warden shouted. He didn’t hear and kept right on talking. “Boss Leaks!” a little louder this time.
Somebody in his squad finally said, “Boss Leaks! Boss Leaks!”
“Whut th’ hell you wont, nigguh?! Can’t you see I’m talkin? Thas whut’s wrong wit you nigguhs now, always buttin in sumbody’s bizness!”
The con finally got a word in, “Boss, I wuz jes tryin ta tell you th’ warden is back dere callin you.”
“Ol’ Braggs, whut’s wrong wit you, nigguh?!”
“Nuthin, Boss.”
“Drap dat mouf! Ol’ Braggs, you bout th’ sorriest nigguh I evuh seed,” leaning forward in his saddle to really let him have it. “Don’t you thank I gits tired uv watchin you drag yore ass aroun? Whut’d you say?! Nigguh, you bet not open yore mouf!
“How cum you won’t go ta wek? How cum you make me beg you ta wek, nigguh? Why you so bitterly ‘ginst it? Is wek evuh kilt anybody in yore family? Is you evuh heard tell uv anybody dyin frum it?”
“Nawsuh, Boss,” Braggs answered and kept on working. He, like the rest of the squad, knew it was all just a charade.
“I tell you whut nigguh, I’m damn sho gon see if I can’t BEG dat man into doin sump’n ta yore rotten ass when we gits back ta dat house!”
Big Devil sat on the hood of his car trying to keep a straight face. After thoroughly chewing out Braggs, “Did I hear suma y’all say sump’n bout dat warden ‘while ago?”
“Yessuh, Boss, we been tryin ta tell you th’ warden’s been callin you.”
“Well, why in th’ hell didn’ y’all say so!?” Shifting all blame onto the squad, “You damned ol’ thangs be runnin dem ol’ moufs so Gotdam much, a man can’t hear hissef fart. Git ta wek!”
Removing his hat quickly was the fastest move he’d made all day. He slowly turned his horse around and began walking it toward the car. Hat in hand, he greeted, “How you feelin, Warden, Suh? You doin awright today, Suh? Sorry I tuk so long in a-comin, I didn’ know you wuz back heah. But as you knows, dese ol’ nigguhs be runnin dem ol’ moufs worse’n a bell clappin in a goose’s ass. I jes got thru tellin one uv ‘em he betta quit runnin his ol’ head. I’m sho glad you showed up. He’ll take his ass ta wek now.”
“Whut nigguh is it thas givin you trouble?”
“Warden, Suh, you know whut I cum ta learn?”
“Whut’s that Cliff?”
“Alla dem ol’ wide-mouf apes look so much alak I can’t hardly tell ‘em apart.” Scratching his stubby chin, “I can’t thank uv dat nigguh’s name to save my life. But I know whut I’m gon do, I’m gon cut th’ whole damn batch out, dat way I’ll git dat rotten bastard. Whut wuz it you wonted ta see me bout, Warden?”
Big Devil had as much fun as anybody listening to his thigh-slapping humor, but wasn’t about to let him off the hook for not adequately guarding his squad. “Leaks, you betta go to watchin ‘em nigguhs an make ‘em go to cleanin them rows. Yore nigguhs is goin down thru there leavin half a that wek.”
“I’m sho glad you seed dat, Warden! I been callin dem rotten bastards back all day. I’m so tired uv it I jes don’t know whut ta do. Dey won’t lissen ta me, Warden. Warden, now dat you is heah, kin I axe you a favor, Suh?”
“Yeah, whut is it Cliff?”
“Warden, would you take my hoss an ride out in dat field an tell dem rotten bastards o’ mine how BAD you wont sump’n dun to dey black asses?”
Nobody was about to sit in the saddle after him, above all, the warden. “Cliff, whut I called you fer is to tell you I kin see y’all’s rows a mile away. Them nigguhs o’ yourn is jes flat out big-assin you.”
“You right, Warden, you sho right! Only thang keepin me frum killin sum uv dem rotten bastards is I don’t wanna give yore farm no bad name.”
“Whutta you mean?”
“Whut I means is th’ way you runs th’ damn thang. You th’ bess warden I evuh been under. Ain’ no ‘mounts o’ money dat could git me ta take on yore worries. Thas why I do’s evuh thang I kin ta try not ta worry you no more’n I hafta. Is sump’n worryin you, Warden?”
“Yeah! Sump’n’s worryin me. It’s worryin hell outta me the way you let them ol’ nigguhs o’ yourn jes drag ‘long, lak they waitin fer the damn flies to blow ‘em.”
“Warden, I’m soooooo glad you said dat I don’t know whut to do!! Jes soon as you leave I’m goin over yonder an put dem rotten sonsabitches ta wek, one way or anutha. You kin bet yore boots on dat. I dun had enuff.”
“How cum you can’t do it while I’m heah Cliff?”
“Well, Warden,” looking at him point blank, “I respects you too much, I don’t wont you no where round when I gits back ta dat squad. I couldn’ stand fer you ta see whut all I’m gon do. ‘Sides, I couldn’ sleep tonite knowin I dun messed up yore suppa.”
Big Devil didn’t have a comeback for that much tarnished humility. Shaking his head, he got in the car and drove away.
We were almost to the end of our rows by the time Boss Leaks walked his horse over to his squad. All the squads got to the end in good succession and we quickly lined up and headed back. I set a steady chopping cadence, slowing it down a notch to allow Number 8 to work their way up even with the rest of us. We were still snickering at Boss Leaks’ conversation with Big Devil.
When all the squads got lined up and were working side by side again, I looked over at Cap Rock, “Les rock ‘em.” Cap Rock picked up the lick, and the con next to him, and the next, and so on down the line until our two hundred hoes were hitting together thunderously, causing the earth to tremble beneath our feet. I cut loose with one of our work songs:
“We got forty-fo hammers rangin in one line.”
“Forty-fo hammers rangin in one line.”
“Ain’ no hammer heah that rangs lak mine.”
“Rangs lak mine.”
“It rangs lak silver, an it shines lak golddddd.”
“Rangs lak silver, an it shines lak gold.”
“The price for my hammer rangin ain’ never been told.”
“Ain’ never been told.”
“So les raise ‘em up higher, an then drop ‘em on down.”
“Drop ‘em on down.”
“They can’t tell the difference, when the sun goes down.”
“When the sun goes down.”
We must have sung Boss Leaks and his horse to sleep. While we were singing, his old horse had wandered behind another squad. Both had their heads hanging down. Boss Cochise detected Boss Leaks had fallen asleep and alerted the others not to awaken him. The horse and Boss Leaks came right out on the turnrow still following the wrong squad. We watched him go down the turnrow, dead asleep. That languid old horse had been walking on the turnrow for so many years he followed anything dressed in white. Only problem, he didn’t know one squad from another. We all looked alike to him.
Once all the squads were out on the turnrow and headed down it, the bosses felt they’d let the joke go on long enough. Cochise hollered, “Hey, Boss Leaks! Hey, Boss!”
Boss Leaks flinched and sat up erectly. Eyes blurry, he looked around and didn’t see the three or four cons he knew. “Yeah, whut is it, Boss Wilhite?”
“Boss Leaks, I hate ta ‘sturb you, but you been followin the wrong squad.” The other bosses cracked up.
Boss Leaks waited until they finished laughing, “Dey all nigguhs, ain’t dey?”
Besides Boss Leaks’ antics, the tractor squad was another main attraction. They put on a show for us when they plowed nearby. It was like watching a John Deere Indy 500. Proud Walker was the lead row man in the tractor squad and had the pole position. His middle busters hit the black gumbo first as he tail rowed space for them the way Bad Eye tail rowed our rows for us. When Proud Walker moved over to catch another set of rows, he always left the exact amount of space for the rest of the drivers to catch in and plow coming back down. They took off after him and plowed the rows straight as arrows with the front wheel of their tractors reared up like a motorcycle daredevil.
Thirty-Five plowed while steering with his feet and rolling a smoke. Crazy Folks filed on a “piece a sump’n” he hustled at the shop, making rings, tie clasps and other sellable “jewelry,” as he tilled the soil.
The “toast ridin” feat was the grand finale. They all lined up and leaped off their moving tractors, ran along beside them, undid their water jugs strapped to the hoods, took a drink, “salud,” crossed over in front, and remounted on the other side. It was no secret that those jugs were usually filled with “chock,” a homebrew made from potatoes, sugar, yeast, dried fruit, and water. At any given time any of them could have been busted for PWI (plowing while intoxicated). It was no secret either, that the tractor squad was the “warden’s niggers” and could get away with it.
Their bosses didn’t hassle them since they were all good workers, or the warden wouldn’t have assigned them to the squad. They were the first ones called out in the morning and the last ones to come in at night. Seven days a week, rain or shine, the tractor squad went out.
To keep the farm looking clean and the roads smooth, on Sundays the warden would have Pug and Brady drop the cultivators on Brady’s hot rod tractor and hook on the cable-drawn two-by-twelve planks to drag sweep the main turnrow, which was the road leading into the unit. When we were up in the auditorium, we could see them through the windows as they performed their no-holding-onto-nothing-allowed “plank skiing” stunt. We bet on each ride.
They took turns riding the planks while the other zigzagged the tractor across the road, trying to throw the plank rider off. Going full speed, the driver locked one of the wheels and turned sharply to create a wide, sweeping “pop the whip” effect. When this didn’t get it, the driver was the loser and they’d switch places. According to our score, the match was 3-1 in Pug’s favor.
Something was really going on; I thought maybe the Feds had taken over. Never had so many big shots from the Walls Administration visited our unit back to back. The week before it had been a group from the Education Department down to teach us a word association memory technique, and then it was the prison system’s clinical psychologist, Dr. Gates.
“Any man can change for the better, but he’s gotta want to. He’s got to have that itchin, achin, burnin desire for self-betterment.” When I first saw Dr. Gates I thought he might have been the governor, nattily attired in his business suit and boots. He spoke eloquently while at the same time using layman’s terms we could understand.
He told us, “I’m going to start a pilot program of group counseling sessions where we can talk out our problems through discussions and interacting with one another. The program’ll begin next Thursday afternoon and will be held each Thursday thereafter for sixteen weeks. Those selected to attend will only work a half day on Thursdays. Selection of the twelve participants will be left to the warden’s discretion.”
“He sho didn’t hafta say dat,” somebody mumbled.
The only logical reasons I could come up with as to why Big Devil selected the twelve of us was either he’d gone crazy, or didn’t give a damn if it worked or not and was just appeasing the administration. We were all field hands, except Hollywood and Rev.
After Big Devil finished laying down ‘the law’ about classroom behavior, he asked, “Y’all got any questions?”
Nobody had any. That is, except Flea Brain. “Yassuh, Warden. How cum y’all don’t put Poke Chops in heah wit us?”
Big Devil didn’t dignify his question with an answer, instead he shot him a scornful look and dismissed us. Thursday rolled around. “Funny-school day,” the cons had labeled it. The count was clear and Boss Humpy let us out.
When we entered the auditorium, Hollywood and Rev were already seated, chatting with Dr. Gates. They got a head start because their trusty tank door was kept unlocked and they could wander about at will. We sat waiting to be included.
“Good afternoon,” Dr. Gates greeted. He got less than 100 percent response and said it again. This time we all said it back. “How can we interact if we don’t speak to one another? I already met these two fellas. Why don’t we get acquainted, I’m Dr. Gates. Now let’s start with this fella here, what’s your name?”
Flea Brain didn’t give Fistfucker a chance to speak and blurted out, “How cum y’all ain’ got Poke Chops in dis class?”
“I didn’t know y’all were allowed to eat up here.” Joking, “Next time I’ll try to remember to bring something.”
The class erupted, and so did Dr. Gates, which I’m sure made Boss Humpy wonder what in the hell was going on. Finally we laughed ourselves down and Proud Walker explained between laughs, “Dr. Gates, he ain’ talkin bout poke chops you eat.”
“Well, if we’re not talking about the kind you eat, somebody wanna tell me what we ARE talking about here?”
Proud Walker, in his finest hour, was quick to decipher the Pork Chops intrigue. “Dr. Gates, he talkin bout anutha nigguh NAMED Poke Chops.”
“Nowww I got it. Thanks for helping me out.” The class had gotten back to semi-calm, and Dr. Gates directed his attention to Flea Brain, “What’s your name, fella?”
“Flea Brain.”
“Why do they call you that? Do you know?”
“Yassuh, it’s cuz my brains ain’ no bigger’n a flea.”
“How do you know that?”
With foolish pride, “Das whut th’ Warden say an th Warden don’t lie.”
“And you believe that your brain ‘ain’t no bigger’n a flea’ just because the warden said it?”
You better watch out Doc, you’re treading on thin ice. If you don’t, Wise-em-up’s nightly heralds of “you gonna hafta talk ta that warden in the mornin” will ring true for you.
“Well, now that I know Pork Chops is a who, why do you want him in the class?”
Flea Brain was not the bashful type when the subject was Poke Chops. “Jes cuz I luvs him an he need to be where I is an I need to be where he is. See, me an Poke Chops be togedda a long time.”
“In other words, you feel that your friend Pork Chops should be in the class because you’re in it.”
“Dr. Gate, he be mo’n a ‘frien,’ Poke Chops be my woman,” and sheepishly added, “an sumtimes I’s his’n. We swich awoun.”
Silence.
“Oh. I see.”
Overwhelmed by his frankness, Dr. Gates jumped at the opportunity to do a full flea brain analysis. “Do you feel it’s wrong to have sex with a man?”
“Dat’s all dat’s in heah. I gits punished when I gits caught jackin off. Most uv us can’t git to dem cows, mules, an hosses lak dem lot nigguhs. Whut we spose ta do?”
Flea Brain had stymied the good doctor. “If you don’t want to be in the class because Pork Chops isn’t in it, then the best thing for us to do is get you out of it. You go on downstairs and have a seat underneath the picket. I’ll talk to the warden on my way out.”
After Flea Brain left we spent the rest of the afternoon listening to the good Doc describe his escapades as a “RAF pilot in WW 2.” Even with Flea Brain gone, he had his work cut out for him. There was the silent bunch: Earthworm, Tarzan, Crazy Folks, Cowfucker, and me. Fistfucker, Nelly Nuthin, Proud Walker, and Bow Wow were the vocal dunces who tied up the class with their illogical questions and arguments.
Rev and Hollywood were the ad-libbing duo. They held up the class expounding on Dr. Gates’ statements. Their suckassism was the most boring part of the class, but Proud Walker would come to the rescue with his cockeyed questions that caught the good doctor off guard.
Dr. Gates was going hot and heavy, “A man is judged by his behavior. A man is no better or worse than his behavior makes him. You are no more or no less than what you’ve become up to this very moment. We’re the sum total of our behavior.”
He should have finished before he stopped to ask if we were “with him.” Proud Walker apparently wasn’t. “Dr. Gates, sump’n bout dis I don’t unnastan.”
“What is it you don’t understand?”
“Well, whut is behavior in th’ furst place an how does I know I got one?”
“Everybody has a behavior. Sometimes it’s good and sometimes it’s bad, just like anything else.”
“Well, if it’s bad an it’s jes lak anythang else, how cum ya can’t git it tuk out lak yo ‘pendix when dey gits bad? Is it sum kinda disease er sump’n?”
“No, it’s not a disease.”
“Well, if it ain’ no disease, how cum it takes a doctor ta fix it?”
As the weeks wore on, the good doctor repeatedly talked about pride, fair play, humbleness and respect for others whenever Proud Walker hushed long enough to let him finish a thought. He made some good points and was doing his level best to convince us we could “change.” But he didn’t “unnastan” this was no place for fainthearted gentlemen. Besides, where were our keepers? Why weren’t some of them in the class? Surely we weren’t the only ones who could benefit from his teachings on compassion and dignity.
In the not too distant future, the warden decided Tarzan would be “betta off” in the psycho ward at the Walls and transferred him there. Maybe Dr. Gates had something to do with it. Finally after so many years at Retrieve, he was sent away. If he let out one of his jungle screams at the Walls, they wouldn’t know what in the hell to think, especially if he caught a mouse or something. He’d wind up in a straitjacket for sure. We were “betta off” without him, but he was safer with us—we already knew he was crazy. They’ have to find out the hard way.
At the end of the sixteen weeks we held our graduation exercise in the auditorium and received our certificates of completion. My first … for anything.
The next morning, Friday, it was business as usual. After Big Tom sounded, Cap’n Smooth hollered up the hall, “When you Number 1 and 2 nigguhs cum out, pull over to one side an wait. Awright, lemme have ‘em, Boss!”
“Number 1!”
Soon as I cleared the steps, I veered the squad over by the laundry. Number 2 did the same. It took about fifteen minutes to get the count clear. While waiting for our work assignment I thought, I sho hope they don’t send us to clean up around them Gotdam houses.
Then Big Devil came out onto the yard. “Boss Nobles, Boss Wilhite [Cochise], y’all go git sum picks an shovels. Take y’all’s squads roun in front uv my office an I’ll meet y’all.”
“Yessir. Okay, Racehoss, let’s go git us some tools.”
We got them and met him on the shell road in front of his office. “Boss Nobles, Boss Wilhite, I want y’all to go right out there,” pointing to the open field of Johnson grass, “on the other side uv ‘at parkin rail an commence diggin.”
We stood poised and ready to dig up the world. “Tell y’all whut, I best walk over there wit y’all an show you zackly whut I want.” Walking across the road, “Brang y’all’s squads on an follow me.” He walked to the center of the field and pointed down, “This is where I want y’all to start.”
“Whut’re we diggin, Warden?” Cochise asked.
“A fishin pond.”
“How big’s it gonna be?” Cochise asked.
“Well, itta be plenny big enuff when y’all git dun wit it.”
Looking at the area I thought, He ain’ bullshittin. And with two squads digging it with picks and shovels, I’d discharge the rest of my sentence on it. Big Devil “walked it off.” According to his calculations, the pond would end up being 100’ by 100’. “And we’re goin down a fer piece, bout six to eight feet.”
“Warden, you ain’ plannin on goin fishin in it no time soon, is you?” Cochise asked.
Big Devil smiled mischievously, “Jes soons y’all git it dug.”
The two squads kept their motors on low idle, hoping Cochise would hush and let Big Devil go on about his business. Just his presence made everybody nervous as whores in church.
“Warden, you gonna stock it?” Cochise asked.
“Gotdam, Wilhite! It wouldn’ be no damn fishin pond if it weren’t no fuckin fish in it.”
Boss Nobles, waiting for an opening, asked, “Warden, you got any more orders before we git started?”
“Yeah, take yore Number 1 nigguhs an spread ‘em out in a circle heah in the middle. You nigguhs spread out in a circle roun me. Spread out wide nuff apart so y’all got room to wek.”
Then he had Number 2 encircle us. “Now thas the way I want y’all to start. You Number 1 nigguhs start diggin in the center heah, an pitch ‘at dirt back to these Number 2 nigguhs. They’ll throw it back outta the way, we’ll build up the levee as we go. Awright, y’all git at it.”
The area was near the officers’ housing, namely Cap’n Smooth’s house. Most of the cons and bosses hated working close to the residences, and especially that close to the warden’s office. Whenever we walked past the warden’s house, we had to pull off our flop-down hats whether anybody was home or not, which was the main reason I started wearing a bandanna. Failure to do so was the pisser (for being disrespectful). The same thing went for his car.
Plus, the officers’ wives always found something to do outside when we showed up, just so we could see them. They came out onto their porches or front yards wearing nothing but housecoats. If we got caught “looking,” no telling what might happen. They knew what they were doing when they showed off in our presence. They also knew that many of us hadn’t been with a woman for years. It was dangerous as hell to work around them.
After the second week of digging, we had the “pond” all to ourselves. We didn’t do it on purpose, but we jobbed the shit out of Number 2 hoe. We’d been digging out so much dirt and pitching it back, they couldn’t shovel it back fast enough and we had a hole that looked like a double-ring donut. This pissed Cochise off and he started cursing them for not keeping up. Cap’n Smooth’s wife overheard his “foul language” and ran him in to the warden. Big Devil came out to the pond and sent them back to the fields. Fuck!
But Big Devil compensated for the loss of manpower. We worked in the hole as our “regular” job five days a week and all the screw-ups in the building, as well as in the field, carried on the project nights and weekends as punishment.
After about ten weeks the hole was taking on the shape of a huge pond. The more we dug, the more I despised the sight of a shovel and a pick.
Tuesday evening when we came in, Boss Humpy hollered down in the tank, “Ol’ Racehoss, lay-in in th’ mornin to ketch ‘at chain!”
“Yahoooo!!” I couldn’t help it. It had been so long since I talked to the parole man I’d just about given up. After almost eight years, I made it.