“He’s got 230, he’s got 215, he’s got 220, he’s got 195.” Cap’n Smooth stopped and commented when the weight dropped under 200 pounds, “Nigguh, you betta take yore Gotdam ass to wek an quit a-draggin roun ‘fore I do sump’n to you.” Then to Boss Deadeye, “You gon hafta put this rotten bastard to wek, cawse I b’leeve th’ sonuvabitch dun laid th’ hammer down, jes flat dun quit.” Everything stopped until he finished preaching his sermon about the low weights.
As I sat on my sack waiting my turn, I felt like jumping up and running right out across the field. To hell with the 30-30 and the bloodhounds. The weight keeper called my number. Cap’n Smooth looked at me as if I had spit in his face when I stepped toward the scales dragging my sack. Beer Belly’s words rang loud and clear as I hung it up.
Cap’n Smooth hollered, “Forty pounds! Kin you b’leeve it? Forty fuckin pounds uv cotton! Boss, this ol’ nigguh sho must be heavy wit you! Whutcha do Boss, let ‘em ketch you fuckin a mule?”
The cons waiting to weigh up behind me started laughing. Boss Deadeye’s face crimsoned and he had a wild-eyed look when he said, “Cap’n, I’m willin to forfit a whole month’s wages if you jes look th’ other way fer five seconds so’s I kin throw this wuthless sonuvabitch away.” With trembling hands, he pointed his double-barrel shotgun at me and laid the hammers back. Those waiting to weigh up scampered out of the way in case he fired.
“Naw, Boss,” Cap’n Smooth said jokingly, “I don’t b’leeve this bastard’s even wuth the price uv a good load uv buckshot. ‘Sides, you might splatter nigguh shit all over my boots an mess up my shine.” Boss Deadeye lowered his shotgun.
“Whar you frum, nigguh! I spose you one a them city nigguhs that ruther steal than wek. Whar’d you say you cum frum?” Each time I attempted to answer, “Dry up that fuckin ol’ mouth when I’m a talkin to you!” With his finger pointed close to my face, he shouted, “Do you hear me talkin to you NIG-GUH!?” bouncing his voice off my nose.
“Tell you whut, Boss, don’tcha let this sorry bastard even slow down at that water wagon. He ain’ picked enuff to pay fer a drank uv water.” Back at me, “As fer you nigguh, you betta gitcha Gotdam goat-smellin ass back out yonder an go to pickin that Gotdam cotton! I’m gon do sump’n to you if you cum draggin yore yaller ass back up to them scales wit anutha measly forty pounds. You hear me NIG-GUH!?”
He hollered down the turnrow to the officer watching the dump sheets for dirty cotton, “Lieutenant, you betta sho watch this nigguh, an don’t let ‘em dump ALL ‘at cotton he’s got on yore foot. Jes mite break it!” Walking toward the sheets to empty my sack, I heard him say, “Reason that sonuvabitch can’t pick no cotton’s cawse he wuz too busy hustlin up decent white men fer his ol’ mammy to screw ‘stead uv learnin sump’n wuthwhile.”
I emptied my sack and stood to the side waiting for the others to weigh up and empty. The lieutenant, who the cons called “Sundown,” asked in a semi-audible tone, “You didn’ have much that time, didja?”
“No sir.”
“Well, they’s plenny uv it out thar. You betta gitcha self sum uv it.”
After Chinaman emptied his sack and got a drink, we took off running back down the turnrow to where we’d left off. It seemed like we had been picking for an hour when Boss Deadeye hollered, “Ol’ Road Runner, y’all raisem up an go on over yonder whar they dun set up ‘at johnny ground.”
Heading down the middles of the rows toward the turnrow, “You dick-eatin bastards betta not be a-knockin ‘at man’s cotton all over th’ fuckin ground! Ever sonuvabitch stay walkin in his own middle. Furst nigguh I ketch a-crossin over ‘em rows a-knockin cotton on th’ ground’s gon git a load uv buckshot in his black ass. You nigguhs tighten up an git on up yonder wit that lead row nigguh ‘fore I bust a ball down thru this canyon! Ol’ Road Runner, go ‘head! Take ‘em on ‘way frum heah! ”
Road Runner shifted gears and we struggled furiously for our other gears. We shot down the turnrow like a bunch of gazelles. Within minutes we pulled up at the johnny ground. On one side of the turnrow the flunkies had set up folding tables and chairs for the bosses. By now, all the squads arrived and we were lined up to go through the chow line. The Number 1 squad first.
As we started through, Boss Deadeye shouted, “Ol’ Yaller Nigguh, don’tcha git no pan. You jes stand yore rotten ass over yonder back outta th’ way, so’s ‘em nigguhs thas been a-wekin kin git sump’n to eat.”
The other bosses joshed him, “Hey Boss, is this heah that nigguh whut broke ‘em scales wit all ‘at cotton this mornin?”
Another chimed in, “How’s he gonna keep pickin them bales fer ya if ya don’t feed ‘em? Cum to thank uv it, that nigguh looks lak one a them import nigguhs. Frum whut I hear, they don’t need a heap to eat. They spose to run all day on a liddle bit uv nuthin. Ain’ that right, nigguh?”
“Hell, Boss,” another added, “that nigguh don’t want no talk. You kin tell he’s swole up. That nigguh’s got his mind on sippin lemonade in that free world.”
Boss “Eatem Up,” the undisputed master at harassing cons and bosses, added his bullshit, “Since you ain’ gon feed that ol’ nigguh, why don’tcha lend ‘em yore hat an let ‘em fan suma these fuckin flies? As a gen’le rule, nigguhs whut claim they can’t pick cotton gen’ly make damn good fly fanners,” he said cramming food into his mouth. Continuing to talk while chewing, “Boss, know whut? If I had that ol’ nigguh in my squad, shit, I wouldn’ even ASK ‘em to wek. All he’d hafta do is jes fan th’ flies an gatternippers offa me an my fuckin hoss.”
I stood off to the side waiting for them to finish eating. Some con said, “Gotdam! Looka heah, heah’s a big o’ grasshopper in my pan!”
The con next to him reached over pretending to grab it, “Lemme hav dat piece uv meat, man,” he joked.
With the meal over, Boss Deadeye hollered, “Awright, alla you Number 1 nigguhs, git out heah on ‘is turnrow an line up in twos.” We paired off in two columns so he could take the head count. He rode his horse from end to end, counting. Then, “Go ‘Head!”
I was back on my row again and nothing had changed. I kept falling behind, Cap Rock came over at Boss Deadeye’s request to pick off my row, and Boss Deadeye stayed on my ass. My shirt stuck to my back and the sweat sloshed inside my brogans. My parched throat got drier and drier and the sharp pains in my back were excruciating. Hard as I was getting after that cotton, I couldn’t understand why I couldn’t keep up. All I knew to do was keep my head down and my ass up, and try to pick as much as I could.
Shortly, Boss Deadeye yelled, “Ol’ Road Runner, that man’s beckin fer us again. Y’all raisem up an head on to them scales.”
The sun’s hot rays had dried most of the early dew from the cotton. It was much lighter now, which was evident as Cap’n Smooth called out the weights. “He’s got 175!” That was Road Runner. Cap Rock weighed up next, “He’s got 185!” He outweighed Road Runner because of all the cotton he had picked off my row. The weights ranged from 130 pounds to Cap Rock’s 185. So far, Cap’n Smooth hadn’t said a word to anybody who had weighed up ahead of me.
I hung my sack on the scales. Cap’n Smooth jumped back in a comical gesture and hollered out, “He’s got 55 pounds! Boss, you musta whispered sump’n in this nigguh’s ear! Nigguh, you betta go to gittin sum more uv ‘at cotton. That ain’ near bouts enuff. You hear me?!”
“Yes sir,” dragging my sack away.
Before I reached the sheets, he shouted, “Nigguh, don’tcha be a-wearin ‘at fuckin sack out draggin it up an down this Gotdam turnrow! Pick it up an tote it. You ain’ got a double handful uv cotton, an you gonna jes drag it roun lak it’s too heavy fer you to tote!”
I emptied up. Since nothing had been said to the contrary, I headed to the water wagon. Water Boy Brown poured up some more water from the two canvas-covered wooden barrels, refilling the four tin buckets. He could barely pour for squabbling with some cons who had already gotten their drinks. They were at the front of the wagon aggravating
the two old mules, Ol’ Coal Oil and Ol’ Fannie. Ol’ Fannie had been screwed so many times by convicts that when one of them patted her on the rump, she automatically raised her tail up. When a con touched either of the mules, it caused them to move the wagon a few feet.
Water Boy Brown finally said, “You ignant muthafuckuhs, let dem mules ‘lone befo I take one a dese axe hannels an ram it up one a y’all’s asses. Gotdam stupid muthafuckuhs!” he mumbled. “Dere’s sum mo nigguhs back heah still tryin to gitta drank!”
Still, they would not stop, no matter what he said. Like a bunch of mischievous little boys, they enjoyed teasing the mules and antagonizing Water Boy Brown.
The water was hot as piss and so salty it was almost slimy. But it was my first drink since we left the building and tasted as good as Coca Cola. I noticed instead of wasting water by spitting it on the ground, it was spat into the empty cotton sacks. Whatever water was left in the cups went into the sacks too. Wetting it “makes th’ cotton weigh mo.”
When the tail row emptied his sack and gulped down his last swallow of water, Boss Deadeye yelled, “Y’all git on ‘way frum heah. Go ‘Head!” Like bats out of hell, we speeded back to our rows and started picking again.
The scorching sun beat down on the fields, casting a mirage in the distance. To shield themselves the bosses wore handkerchiefs beneath their cowboy hats and had capes draped around their shoulders, resembling sheiks in the Arabian Desert. Rays of blistering sunlight beamed on Boss Deadeye’s wet back as he stood in his stirrups, exposing the soaked seat of his pants that no doubt added to his bad-tempered disposition. Shotgun barrels held in sweaty hands forced the bosses to hang them downward by the stock, hitting against their horses’ shoulders and causing them to buck. Sweat pouring, we worked our way closer to the sun. “Go ‘Head! Git that row!”
Looking down the row through huge black balls of mosquitoes, I could hardly see for swatting them out of my eyes. Every time I moved my cotton sack forward I stirred up another batch. It was so hot the heat came up from the ground and the mosquitoes came up with it in the stalks. When I grabbed a stalk, they zoomed in my face and swarmed me. We were the first human ass they had tasted, and they loved it! Those little suckers were eating us alive and using the horses’ bellies for chasers.
It was late afternoon. A few courageous clouds dared to shield us from Ol’ Sol, momentarily causing shade-giving shadows to dance across the fields. Barring an occasional abusive remark by a boss or the “go ‘head” command and except for the rattling of the cotton stalks being stripped of their precious white gold, it was quiet. All across the field cotton sacks inched along the middles like giant caterpillars as black bodies dressed in white bobbed up and down like prairie dogs, bending, stooping, sweating, crawling, picking, and popping those sacks with an uncanny rhythm each time a handful was thrust inside.
I wasn’t quite as far behind as I had been earlier in the day and Boss Deadeye was behind somebody else for a change. I hollered, “Pourin it down over here, Boss!”
Finally, “Go ‘head an pour it down.”
Turning my back to him, I directed every single drop into my sack.
We picked and picked. Cap’n Smooth had already gone to the building, leaving Lieutenant Sundown in charge of the field force. I understood why the cons called him that. The sun was sinking low and there was no indication that we would be knocking off any time soon. On the turnrow ahead, he leaned so precariously off the side of his horse the stirrup almost touched the ground. It looked like any minute his saddle was going to slip down under the horse’s belly, taking him with it.
Sundown looked right sitting atop a horse. A real Gary Cooper-looking cowboy. He was tall and slim, neat as a pin, and his tailored shirts fit like a glove. He sat unconcerned, smoking a cigarette and staring off into the sunset. They were motionless, except when the big dark bay periodically swished her tail or he took a drag off his cigarette.
For once I was even with the squad because the work pace had slowed down considerably. Most of the squad were watching for Sundown to raise his hat. I passed several of them as I hustled for every boll of cotton I could get. I had more in my sack now than I’d had all day. The strap was cutting into my shoulder each time I pulled against it. The sun was gone, even the reddish orange had disappeared over the horizon. We picked on. Sundown raised his hat at twilight.
Boss Deadeye yelled, “Awright, you Number 1 nigguhs, brang ‘em sacks on back heah an put ‘em on th’ end uv yore row.” After the head count, “Go ‘Head! Ol’ Road Runner, take these ol’ thangs on to that house.” Hollering up ahead, “Boss, git them Gotdam drag-asses outta the way up thar an let this Number 1 squad cum by.”
Some of the other squads had gotten to the turnrow before we did, but it was a law of the bottoms that no squad walked or worked in front of Number 1. They pulled over, “Ol’ Road Runner, go ‘head, nigguh!”
While standing at the backgate waiting for Boss Deadeye to get his shotgun and pistol checked in, I noticed that neither the warden nor the captain was there with the Hog Law book. I didn’t know what was going on, and didn’t care so long as I could make it back to the tank and get on my bunk. That evening I found out it was a traditional policy of Big Devil’s (a gift of sorts) not to punish on the first day of picking season. “He gives us dat day to warm up an git broke back in.”
Finished checking his weapons, “You nigguhs, go ‘head!”
Inside the yard, midway between the backgate and the back door, we stripped so the line of waiting guards could shake us down. The ten of us who lived on Number 3 tank made a mad dash for the showers to get in and out before the rest of the squads got into the tank. As usual, Big George sat on the ledge above the commodes so he could eye grind our naked, wet bodies. Thanks to Sundown, by the time we finished showering it was totally dark outside.
After supper I got on my bunk. To hell with the domino table and card games. I saw Cap Rock nodding off while sitting in line for the barber chair. I scratched my head and winced. My fingers were sore and puffy, and the cuticles and under my nails were full of cotton burr tips. I picked them out with my teeth the best I could, but some would have to fester before coming out. I massaged my swollen, aching knees, hoping that would ease the stiffness. Lying on his bunk, Beer Belly looked over at me. “This shit’s gon take some gittin use to, man,” I told him.
“I tell you, I been pickin side by side wit a nigguh all day long an never got no furtha behind ‘em dan th’ end uv his sack. An I be damn if dat nigguh wudn’ beatin me fifteen or twenny pouns ever weigh-in. I couldn’ figger where in th’ hell he had got all dat cotton frum or whut he wuz doin I wudn’ doin. But I sho learnt in a hurry. Dey’s a trick to it. You hafta learn it. You gon see.”
Before I could ask what the trick was, “Count time!”
Count time over, all was quiet. With no fans and very little fresh air the hot, sticky, stinking air from stinking feet made sleep very difficult. But I was dead tired and dozed off. Voices and the tank door opening and closing woke me. Toe Sucker had been put out of the tank again, for the umpteenth time. He had gotten a double lip-lock on somebody’s toe and must have nibbled a little too hard and woke his prey. Half-asleep, I raised up on my elbows.
Beer Belly said, “Ain’ nobody but Toe Sucka hustlin sum mo toe jam.”
Unable to go back to sleep, I heard whispering from the next row of bunks. Half-opening my eyes, I saw a couple of cons pouring lighter fluid all over Iron Head’s sheet-covered body.
The cons called him Iron Head because he could hit his head with his fist and it sounded like he was hitting an empty bucket. He was so good at his ventriloquist trick few realized he actually made the sound with his mouth.
While he loudly snored and snorted they finished dousing his bunk and returned to their own. One of them lit a cigarette and thumped it on Iron Head’s sheet. A second or two later, WHOOSH!
In flames he jumped up yelling and cussing, ran toward the front of the tank, then realized
all the water was in the back. After a quick U-turn, he ran down the alley hollering and slapping at the flames, trying to put his sheet out. He made it to the showers, jumped in and turned on the wrong faucet, the hot water. He was dancing a jig and had the shower area looking like a steam bath.
The tank was in an uproar. The boisterous laughter caused Boss Wise-em-up to holler down, “They’s sum wild-ass’d nigguhs in heah tonite. Suma you ol’ wild-ass’d nigguhs gonna hafta talk ta that warden in the mornin. You betta git down on it.” Then he asked Iron Head, “Didja make sho you got all that far put out? Don’t wanna set this whole fuckin buildin afar.”
“Yassuh, Boss, it’s all put out,” as he went back to what was left of his mattress. “Wisht I knowed whut muthafucka it wuz dat dun dat. I betcha dat warden havta burn me offa his ass.”
Of course, everybody was pretending to be asleep now, but snickering under their covers. Iron Head mumbled on until Slope Diddy said, “Say muthafucka, dry up dat fuckin mouf an go ta sleep befo you git dat ol’ iron head melted sho nuff!”
Iron Head lay down on his bunk and quickly went back to snoring.
Tomorrow came and with it the inevitable. Hades couldn’t possibly be any hotter. We had been entombed, packed inside a four-by-eight steel and concrete chamber and sealed up like a can of beans. As we stood naked in our urine and sweat, the heavy stench was overpowering. The small supply of oxygen depleted with every panting breath the nine of us took.
No face basin, no water, and a fifty-cent-piece-sized hole in the center of the rough, unfinished concrete floor served as the lavatory. The nine of us writhed and twisted for space like maggots in a cesspool. All the darkness and sweltering heat vacuum sealed inside when the solid-steel door slammed shut. This was the pisser.
I was the second man to enter and hurried to one of the back corners. Each time someone squirmed for position everybody in the dark furnace was disturbed. A fight nearly broke out when a con tried to lie down. If one punch was thrown in the blackness, fists would fly like a bunch of blind men fighting.
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