I had been well schooled in how to suffer, to withstand punishment as if it were a challenge, suffering nonetheless. I knew how to cope, been there before; but after so many hours, my legs were cramping. I had to get out of that corner. “Say,” I said, “I know a way we kin make it easy on ourselfs.”
A voice shot back, “Ain’ nuthin gon make dis shit easy, man. Dey got us crammed in dis hot muthafucka lak sardines.”
Then another, “Whut kinda plan you got, man?”
“Look,” I said, “if five uv us line up frum this corner I’m in to th’ door, with our faces to the wall, then fo uv us kin take turns sittin an squattin on the floor next to the other wall.”
“Sounds awright to me,” somebody said, “but, say man, how cum we gotta face the fuckin wall while them fo nigguhs is squattin down ’hind us?”
“Yeah, man, how cum?”
“Well, facin the wall would keep us frum blowin our hot breaths on each other an we wouldn’ be danglin our dicks in the faces uv the ones on the floor.”
“Yeah, but den yo ass would be.”
“I know,” I said, “but it won’t stick out as far.”
We agreed to try it, and rearranged ourselves in the cell. The nine of us stood, squatted, and sat in that hellish coffin until the next morning when it was time to go back to the cotton patch and try to satisfy the Hog Law book.
The following day in the fields Deadeye stopped his horse on the end of my sack. I tried to move forward but couldn’t, “Boss, yo hoss is on my sack.”
“Shet yore mouth an go ta wek!” I pulled the strap off my shoulder, wheeled around and grabbed the horse’s muzzle, and punched him in the nose. He let out a loud whinny and reared, throwing Boss Deadeye to the ground and causing him to drop his shotgun. “Cap’n! Cap’n! They’s a crazy nigguh over heah!” That little fracas got me another stay in the pisser and “assault on a dumb brute” on my record. During our next altercation, he blew away the end of my cotton sack with his shotgun. I cussed him out, landing me back in the pisser for “refusin ta wek.”
My next weigh-in netted another stint in the pisser. Three or four days of that, they let me out and I was back in the fields. When I finally made it to a hundred pounds, I was cuffed to the bars in the hallway. My wrists were fucked up from hanging on the cuffs, my hands were full of festers from cotton burr tips, I hadn’t had much to eat, and I was steady trying to keep up with the squad.
One day when Boss Deadeye called me back to fuck with me and had his shotgun aimed at my head, I hollered, “If you don’t shoot, yo mama’s a punk! If I had that shotgun, I would’ve killed you yesterday, muthafucka!”
“Naw, I ain’ gon kill ya. I’d be doin you a favor, an I ain’ never dun no nigguh no favor in my life. Now git on back ta pickin that man’s cotton!”
I was getting skinnier and skinnier. I thought I was going to starve to death that first cotton picking season. But as the season wore on and after at least a dozen more trips to the pisser and several more bouts with the cuffs, my picking skills improved considerably. Just like Beer Belly said, those “miss-meal cramps” have a phenomenal effect on the development of cotton picking speed.
When the next cotton picking season rolled around, I managed to average with the squad more often than not. By the end of the season in October, I was doing a lot better than Road Runner even. He’d gotten in bad health; his endurance and speed had waned. He lost that other gear and was struggling just to bring up the rear out on the turnrow. We knew it was only a matter of time. He was like an old lion being cast out of the pride. We could hear his heavy breathing as he pushed to keep his row out front.
When the Hog Law book didn’t get him cut out at the backgate, Boss Deadeye got him for “laziness.” Finally, his laborious wheezing and coughing up blood got so bad the medical team diagnosed he had symptoms of TB and had him transferred to the Walls hospital. After he got shipped, Boss Deadeye put Cap Rock on as the lead row. The turnrow had taken its toll on Road Runner, but there were plenty more to take his place. One thing we never seemed to run short of was manpower.
I knew it was almost a cardinal sin if a convict talked back to a boss or refused to obey ANY order. He got an ass whipping, the handcuffs, solitary, or a combination of all three. However, if someone got caught jacking off or fucking, Big Devil and the bosses made a joke of it, like with Fistfucker.
Fistfucker was heralded as the tank jack-off champion and played pants-pocket pool even while holding a conversation. Big Devil decided the best solution to the problem was to make him sleep in a pair of boxing gloves with his wrists tied to his bunk. Whenever he hollered “alley boss,” Forty had to rush and untie him.
So when Flea Brain and Pork Chops got caught fucking, they had to stand side by side on the soda water boxes under the picket, the usual punishment when Big Devil deemed the offense an insignificant part of prison life. While standing on the boxes this time, they argued so much it led to a shoving match and both fell off. The picket boss hollered down orders for them to stop, but they kept right on quarreling.
Flea Brain had been aptly nicknamed because he acted as if his brain were no bigger than a flea’s. He spent every waking hour thinking and talking about the love of his life, Pork Chops. Flea Brain was the more aggressive and vocal of the pair. Pork Chops, on the other hand, was extremely humble, no spirit, like a brokenhearted dog in a pound. When he was a young man, the tear sac under his left eye was damaged by a blow from the barrel of a policeman’s revolver, causing his eye to drip most of the time and making him look even sadder.
Pork Chops helped keep himself and Flea Brain in smokes by washing the socks of cons in return for their cigarette butts. Nevertheless, Flea Brain would not allow the washing services to last very long. When Pork Chops went back to the same con twice to wash his socks, Flea Brain would cuss to the top of his tongue-tied voice, “Poke Chops, I gittin tied yo shit! You tink you smar muddafucka, I be wachin yo ass, hoe! Don’tcha tink I ain’!”
Pork Chops’ left eye started dripping heavier when Flea Brain chastised him. He’d say, “Go on, man. Go on, man. Lemme ‘lone, man,” and try to get away from Flea Brain, who followed him all over the tank fussing. They “fought” in the tank all the time about any and everything.
After their lovers’ spat in the hallway, the picket boss made them sit in separate corners. Flea Brain began his amorous pitch as Pork Chops sat quietly in his assigned corner. “Baby, you knows I luvs you.” He babbled on and on. Finally, the picket boss yelled down for him to shut up, but he never quit professing his love. He harassed the picket boss and Pork Chops all night long with his tongue-tied, lovesick jabbering.
The next day, Sunday, Big Devil was in the guards’ barbershop in the front of the building getting his weekly hair trim and shoe shine. Afterwards, he came through the short corridor that led past the commissary to underneath the inside picket. In his blue gabardine suit, black shoes shining like glass, and light gray, short-brimmed Stetson hat, he looked like a Philadelphia lawyer and could easily have passed for one—that is, until he opened his mouth.
Flea Brain and Pork Chops jumped up from the floor and greeted, “Moanin to you, Warden, Suh.” Big Devil looked through his gold-rimmed glasses at them as if they were two big piles of horseshit. Flea Brain immediately told the warden how he had caught Pork Chops traipsing around “washin th’ same nigguh’s socks twice.”
By the time Flea Brain finished running it down, Big Devil agreed, “Sumthin must be dun.” To prevent future problems, he decided, “Sumtimes marryin has a way uv settlin crazy-assed nigguhs down.”
Big Devil phoned the backgate picket boss and told him to send in Big Mama James, who was a trusty working in the welding shop. Since trusties work seven days a week, Sunday was just another work day. When Big Mama James came in the building, Big Devil told him to go back to the shop and make two wedding bands out of some nuts. While he was gone, Big Devil hollered upstairs to the Number 5 tank building tender, “Send that ol’ pre
acher down heah!”
Rev came downstairs, “Good mornin, Warden. How are you?”
Ignoring his greeting, “Ol’ Rev, I want you to perform me a weddin ceremony. You thank you got sense enuff to do that?”
“Oh yassuh, Warden,” and ran back upstairs to get his Bible.
In twenty minutes it was chowtime. After the meal all of us, excluding the white cons, were ordered to remain to witness the “weddin.” Rev stood in the aisle way waiting with his Bible neatly tucked under his arm. Big Devil ordered Flea Brain and Pork Chops to strip and get up on one of our messhall tables. Then he told Rev to begin the ceremony. Big Mama James acted as best man and handed them the rings when Rev got to that part. They put the rings on each other’s finger and Rev pronounced them “man an wife.” After which, Big Devil ordered them to embrace.
Most of the audience exploded in laughter. Since the wedding was at chowtime and our pans were still on the tables, we showered the newlyweds with food scraps. The cons and bosses were really enjoying the warden’s show. Especially us, because it afforded the opportunity, however short-lived, to go acceptably berserk without fear of punishment.
Finally, Big Devil halfheartedly ordered, “Awright, you nigguhs, knock that shit off!” Even after his command, somebody slung gravy which splattered his suit. He demanded quiet again and we settled down. He gestured for Flea Brain and Pork Chops to get off the table. Up to that point in the festivities, Flea Brain had been grinning and enjoying himself, while Pork Chops stood dejected with his hands folded over his privates, his left eye leaking like a tiny waterfall. Gravy and molasses dripped from his lowered head. Not once did he attempt to wipe it from his face or body.
“I’m gonna give you two nigguhs an early Christmas present.”
Big Devil issued the order for Cap’n Foots to transfer Flea Brain to Number 1 tank, placing him on the other side of the building from Pork Chops. After they dressed, Flea Brain reached out to touch Pork Chops’ hand for a last farewell as they filed out of the messhall. One going East; the other going West.
Chapter 12
It was early December. The rain was freezing fast as it hit the ground. Icicles hung on the outside window ledges. The radiator pipes that ran along the inner ceiling popped sporadically. Already we had been laying-in the building for two days and were getting on one another’s nerves. This was my second Christmas and almost my third year at Retrieve. I’d begun to feel like an old-timer.
The saddest part about the Yuletide season was the way each of us tried to hide our loneliness. If we had the holiday blues, however, it was by choice. Big Devil took great pains to make our Christmas in hell merry. Cons were standing on bunks hanging decorations. Big Devil made the bosses chip in and buy them after Hollywood had this festive brainstorm and sold him on the idea.
The outstanding sissies on each tank were selected by Hollywood and the building tenders to do the decorating. Afterwards, Big Devil would inspect the five tanks to determine which was the prettiest. The chosen tank’s members were allowed into the Friday night picture show first. After the white cons, of course.
Very quickly, the tank activities slowed after the decorating spree. The sound of hard walking and jingling spurs broke the calm. We knew it was Cap’n Smooth even before he spoke. “Boss, open up all ‘em tank doors so’s them buildin tenders kin git out heah.”
Boss Humpy hollered down, “You want one frum each tank or all uv ‘em, Cap’n?”
Aggravated, “Ever damned one uv ‘em!”
Levers were thrown and the noisy steel doors slowly opened. “That Cap’n wants all uv you buildin tenders ta cum on out heah under this picket!”
Three building tenders live on each lower tank and one on the trusty tank. In a matter of minutes all thirteen had gathered underneath the inside picket for a meeting with Cap’n Smooth. As they stood awaiting his spoken word, each had on his most eager-to-please suckass expression.
“Tell you whut I want y’all ta do,” Cap’n Smooth began, “first, how many uv you nigguhs kin read an write?” Several shuffled their feet and looked down at the scrub-polished redbrick floor, indicating they were the ones who could not. “Well, you nigguhs whut kin, I want y’all ta go back in them tanks an git th’ names an numbers uv ever one uv them nigguhs who needs a set uv teeth.”
Big George asked, “Cap’n, does you want da names an numbers uv jes dem nigguhs whut ain’ got no teefs atall, or does you want dem nigguhs’ names whut’s got sum teefs lef?”
“Naw nigguh! I don’t want y’all gittin no nigguh’s name whut’s got sum teeth in his mouth. That warden wants to take care uv them nigguhs first whut ain’ got no teeth atall. Nigguh, whut made you ask a Gotdam crazy-assed question lak ‘at in the first place? If a nigguh’s got two or three teeth uv his own, whut th’ hell does he want sum more fer?”
The question Big George asked must have had some validity, or why did Cap’n Smooth climb up in the inside picket and phone the front office to get further clarification? Afterwards, he descended, “Now, les go over this shit again, so’s I kin see if you nigguhs understand whut you spose to do. I want y’all whut kin read an write to go back in them tanks an git th’ names an numbers uv ever nigguh whut ain’t got no teeth atall. An git th’ names an numbers uv ever one uv them nigguhs in there whut’s got one eye missin. Don’t none uv you crazy bastards ask me if I mean ‘em nigguhs that ain’ got no eyes atall, cawse we ain’ got no no-eyed nigguhs in heah,” he said sarcastically.
When they turned and started to leave, “Jes you nigguhs hold up! I ain’ finished wit y’all yet.”
One mumbled, “Naw suh, Cap’n. We wuzn’ leavin, suh. We jes thought you wuz thru wid us, Cap’n.”
“I’ll tell you when I’m thru, nigguh. Now, where wuz I? Oh yeah, afta you dun got them nigguhs’ names an numbers an dun give ‘em to the picket boss, I want y’all to git a big-mouthed nigguh, a medium-mouthed nigguh, an one uv ‘em little-mouthed nigguhs whut’s got teeth frum the eastside, westside, an Number 5 tanks. Git ‘em up to the front uv them tanks so’s they kin bite them false teeth molds when Ol’ Nolan brangs ‘em down heah. Now, I’m thru wit you nigguhs. Take y’all’s rotten asses on back in ‘em tanks an do whut I tole y’all.”
“Yassuh, Cap’n.”
The cry went out on all five tanks to those who needed false teeth and artificial eyes. Big George presided over the eastside tanks’ registration. Yelling loudly so residents of both tanks could hear, “Awright, you nigguhs git down on dat bullshit an lissen up! Dat Cap’n wonts alla y’all’s names an numbers whut needs a set uv dem false teefs an dem dat ain’ got but one eye. Dat warden gon give y’all sum. So alla y’all dat ain’ got no eyes an teefs, cum on up heah an give yo name an number ta Ol’ Slocum.” Since his own writing skills were lacking, Big George had delegated the signing-up responsibility.
Cons from Number 4 tank who needed an artificial eye or false teeth started marching through the now opened door, which separated the two tanks, to enter Number 3 tank, where the domino table had been cleared for sign-up use. Across the hall, the door separating the westside tanks had also been opened by Boss Humpy so their building tenders could sign up their less fortunates. I never realized there were so many with missing parts. A good third of the cons in the eastside tanks were crowded around the domino table trying to get their names and numbers listed first by Slocum.
Big George shouted, “Say, suma you nigguhs git back an give dat nigguh sum elbowroom.”
When the last con left the sign-up table, Nolan came down the stairs and stood at the 3 tank door, very neatly attired in his wraparound smock, white tennis shoes, and emergency room cap.
B.C., out of Number 2 hoe squad and Bull’s replacement on our tank, yelled out, “You nigguhs whut needs teefs, cum on up heah to da front so y’all kin hear whut Doc Nolan gon say.”
Marble Eye, who was in my squad, didn’t hush quick enough for B.C. “Ol’ Marble Eye, you gon need more’n anutha Gotdam eye if you don’t stop runnin yo
ol’ head! You gon need a tractor ta pull my foot outta yo ass. You one a dem nigguhs whut don’t lak ta be tole nuthin. You gits swole up when sumbody tells you a liddle sump’n,” B.C. said while weaving his way through the crowded front of the tank toward the back where Marble Eye stood.
With one foot propped on his lower bunk, Marble Eye was holding a conversation with another con and completely ignored B.C. When he saw B.C. coming, he took his foot down and one eyed his way to the center of the alley, “Dis gon be twixt you an me, B.C. An pull-do muthafucka, you ain’ gon whup my ass!”
Marble Eye’s bold response froze the other goons for a moment. Before they could establish position in alliance with B.C., we, the Number 1 hoe squad members from the two tanks, got between them and Marble Eye to ensure a fair fight. Boss Humpy had a bird’s-eye view as he looked down into the tank from his perch. Since it involved a building tender, he wasn’t going to interfere.
Both were 200-plus pounders, with muscles like tree stumps from many years in the fields. Both were serving life sentences, mean as hell, and well matched—except for Marble Eye having just one eye. This was going to be a battle. If either or both were killed, nobody would weep.
B.C. got within a few feet of Marble Eye and lunged. They met head-on in the alleyway and their bodies crashed together like two rhinos. Both hit the floor. Fists were flying as they fought side by side between the rows of bunks. They kicked and hit, each scuffling to get up first. The bunks reeled and rocked as if they were being uprooted from their bolted-down positions in the concrete floor.
The cons and picket boss looked on. No one said a word as the fighters continued to pummel and kick each other. Blood was flowing freely from both. They fought on, blow for blow. Their knuckles were bloody, and thick red slobber hung from their noses and mouths. I’d never seen a better fistfight in my life. They fought a good thirty minutes, tussling, wrestling, butting. Everything was fair game in the pen—“ain’t no fair” in fighting. Neither gave an inch, but the power of their swings dwindled.
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