Racehoss

by Albert Race Sample

  I asked Good Eye, who was in the game with me, “Say, how cum you pick that blue eye?”

  “Shit on you, man!” he said offended. “Dat’s da onliest color dey had. It don’t make a fuck to me whut color it is, I can’t see outta it no how. Jes long as it keeps da air outta my head an fills up dis Gotdam hole, dat’s all I wonts it ta do. So don’t be fuckin wit me bout it, man.”

  After Cap’n “Santa” had come and gone, walking down the alleyway half-asleep in the middle of the night got real spooky. The dim light of the 20-watt bulbs casts eerie shadows on the proud faces of the eye-and-teeth recipients. Even as they slept, those with the oversized teeth grinned, and those with a big blue eye “watched” because their eyelids couldn’t close shut over them. All the eyes were one size, extra large. Sending the jumbo, blue artificial eyes down here must have been a good laugh for somebody at the Walls. Passing through the monster colony was worse than walking through a graveyard at midnight. I barely made it to the urinal in time.

  The problems those eyes and teeth caused at the face basin every morning turned the area into a battleground. Two or three brawls broke out before we could make it to the chow hall. Some con’s big eye fell into the sink while he washed his face, just as another was spitting out toothpaste.

  “Say man, don’t be spittin dat shit on my fuckin eye, ‘less you wonts ta die!”

  Scrapping back and forth, “Man, fuck you! You oughta keep dat big ol’ humbolli marble where it b’longs, stuck up in yo ass! Dat’s da only hole you got it’ll cum close ta fittin.”

  The fists flew when someone’s choppers fell out and got spit on. It was the bell for round one all over again.

  Chapter 13

  The Number 1 hoe squad got a late Christmas present. The week after Christmas our guard and nemesis, Boss Deadeye, had a stroke and died. “Hooray!” It was mid-January, and Number 1 had been laying-in since New Year’s. We heard through the grapevine the warden was waiting on somebody “special” to replace Deadeye. It really didn’t matter who they imported. He couldn’t possibly be any worse to work under than Boss Deadeye. That one-eyed bastard drove us like sugar-mill jackasses, agitated us from dawn til dusk, and had us punished to no end. As far as most of us were concerned, it was a silent victory—we had outlasted him.

  Korea, a trusty who worked as the warden’s office porter, had come in for lunch and was at the 3 tank door talking with B.C. while waiting on the call for “short line.” The trusties ate thirty minutes ahead of the field force. “That One Hoe won’t be layin up on dey asses much longer.”

  B.C. commented, “I’m sho glad, I’m tired uv lookin at ‘em.”

  “Whoever Big Devil been waitin on jes showed up, an he called him Boss Band.” The trusty chow bell sounded and Korea left.

  I asked Black Rider, “Didja hear whut Korea jes said?”

  “Yeah,” he said dryly, “I heard. I sho hope it ain’ who he say it is. I worked under him on that Number 3 Ramsey camp back in ‘45. They transferred him dere cuz he kilt a whole squad over on anutha camp. I sho hope it ain’ him! Boss Deadeye wudn’ shit ‘pared ta him.”

  All ten of us began talking about the new boss. Finally, Tennessee spoke with authority. “It happen, it sho happen! Kilt evuh last one uv ‘em.” Clarifying, “Now I wuzn’ in his squad when he dun it. Guess y’all kin see dat. But I wuz on th’ camp at th’ time.”

  Chinaman said, “Say man, quit hem-hawin roun an tell us whut happen or shut the fuck up.”

  Tennessee was taking his time with the story. Always out of smokes, he was enjoying the free cigarettes being passed around. He had been on every camp in the system and worked under some of the toughest bosses, had the bullet holes in his legs to prove it, and was lashed so many times in his prison career that his back was striped like a zebra.

  After bumming a light to fire up the cigarette he had just bummed, “Th’ way I heard it frum suma th’ trusties who wek’d roun dem bosses’ houses when dat happen wuz dis.” He left us hanging as he again stopped to expound. “Now y’all know how th’ grapevine is. Sum you kin bleeve an sum you has ta wonder about.”

  Anxiety got the best of Whitefolks and he could take no more, “Say, lissen alla y’all, lissen a minute.” He took the floor. “Tell y’all whut, les don’t give dis nigguh no mo lights, no mo cigaritts, no mo nuthin til he tells us whut he knows!”

  Several gave a nod of the head to his suggestion.

  “Awright, awright, I’m gon tell y’all. Don’t y’all be in such a Gotdam hurry. Hell, we ain’ got nowhere ta go.” With a thick blanket of cigarette smoke filling the air, Tennessee began again. “See, Boss Band had a houseboy, least his wife did,” he chuckled, “whut cleant an cooked fo ‘em. Th’ way th’ trusties tole it wuz th’ houseboy wuz bout ta root Boss Band outta house an home. Dat houseboy wuz really layin it to her.

  “Anyhow, him an Boss Band’s wife got in a squabble bout cleanin up th’ house. He spose to talk back to th’ woman, sassed her out real good when she tole ‘em to do sump’n. Nigguh musta been crazy to thank he could git ‘way wit dat. Well, when Boss Band cum home dat evenin, she tole ‘em th’ houseboy sassed her out. She tole Boss Band jes enuff ta git ‘em punished a lil’ bit. Jes to show ‘em she wuz still his boss, eben if dey wuz gittin it on.

  “Afta she tole Boss Band, he lef runnin fo th’ buildin. He fount dat houseboy in th’ tank, an tole ‘em if he cum back to wek he’d kill ‘em. Den he went to th’ warden’s house to demand sump’n be dun to his ass. It didn’t matta ta Boss Band th’ warden had jes sot down to eat his suppa. Th’ warden say it could wait til moanin, an he’d look into it.

  “But th’ warden knowed how mean Boss Band wuz an had dat house nigguh hauled off in his car to anutha camp dat same nite. Next moanin, Boss Band cum to th’ buildin an fount out th’ nigguh wuz gone. Th’ warden wouldn’ tell ‘em where he sunt ‘em.

  “When th’ turnout bell rung, Boss Band took his squad out an tole ‘em to wek on ‘way frum th’ others cuz he wanted dem in a cut by dey sef. Whilst dey had dey backs turnt to ‘em choppin, he opened up wit dat pump scatter-barrel. He mowed ‘em down, two an three atta time. Dem whut he didn’ git wit dat scatter gun, he finished off wid his .45. Dey say he blowed suma dem nigguhs half in two. Holes in ‘em big nuff to put yo two fists in, all fo’teen uv ‘em!

  “Das why dey calls ‘em Kill-A-Band. Cuz when we useta set roun talkin bout it afta it dun happen, we useta say, ‘Man, dat boss kilt a whole band uv nigguhs!’ His reason wuz dem nigguhs tried to ‘git in th’ saddle’ wit ‘em. Eben afta he dun kilt dat many mens, he nevah missed a day’s wek er nuthin. All dey dun wuz transfer ‘em over to th’ Ramsey camp.

  “We heard thru th’ grapevine dat he sho straightened out dat One Hoe over dere in a hurry. Hell, he wudn’ at Ramsey a month an kilt two mo.” Laughing a little, “Dat’s when his wife lef ‘em. Dat muthafucka’s got a graveyard alla his own. I sho hope it ain’ him. Ef it is, yo’s truly sho gon put on his travelin shoes!”

  Our afternoon leisure was interrupted by a command from the inside picket boss, “Alla you Number 1 nigguhs, cum on outta them tanks an git out on that yard!”

  We filed out of our tanks and down the hallway, walking for a change. January’s wintry breath strip-searched us at the back door. The sun, just by appearing, showed its bravery. Walking through his shadow to line up against the wall, I glanced at the face half-hidden beneath the wide-brimmed hat. With the sun at his back, he stood motionless. It took a minute or so for the twenty-six of us to stagger ourselves against the wall so each of our faces could be seen by him.

  After we were in formation, in a gravelly voice he asked maliciously, “DO Y’ALL KNOW WHO I AM?” His words sounded like the heavy hiss from a deadly serpent. Nobody said a word. He broke the momentary silence, “Well, I know who y’all is, an y’all gonna find out who I am damn quick!”

  Standing about six feet tall and maybe weighing one sixty, he looked to be on the older side of sixty. Thumbs tucked into th
e pockets of his jeans with his weight shifted to one side, he looked intently at each of us. We didn’t dare make eye contact with him. Kidskin gloves were neatly stuffed into the empty holster hanging from the extra belt he was wearing. Each bullet compartment contained a round of .45 ammunition. With that many bullets around his waist, he certainly didn’t plan on running out. He wore a gabardine khaki shirt, black keen-toed boots, and spurs minus the rowels. There was no crimp in the crown of his black hat, the brim was flat all the way around, exposing the silvery, long sideburns.

  When he raised his head enough so the brim no longer hid his sinister-looking face, I stole a peek at his eyes. Their icy-blue color contrasted sharply with his heavily tanned, weather-beaten skin that resembled tarnished leather. He seldom blinked, roving his eyes over us.

  “I’m gonna tell y’all one time, an one time alone how I’m gonna deal. First off, if ary one uv you tries to run off, I’m gon kill ya. If ary one uv you ‘sputes my word, I’m gon kill ya. If ary one uv you don’t do lak I tell ya, I’m gon kill ya. If you lay th’ hammer down under me, I’m gon kill ya. And if I jes take a notion to, I’m gon kill ya.”

  Never blinking an eye, he continued his commandments in the same monotone. I was holding my breath between each blunt death decree. Was there nothing he wouldn’t kill us for?

  “I don’t wont no conversation wit none a y’all. Jes y’all do lak I tell ya. I don’t know whut y’all dun heard bout me, an I don’t give a damn. But I heard you nigguhs jes been drag-assin.” Louder, “I’ma tellin you now, if y’all drag ‘em ol’ asses roun under me, I’m gon kill ya. That last boss y’all had didn’ git a Gotdam thang outta y’all ‘pared to whut I’m gon git. I bet not see ary nigguh comin thru ‘at backgate wit his shirt not a-stickin to his ass. Ain’ gon be no dry nigguhs in my squad.” Shouting, “DO YOU HEAR ME NIGGUHS!?”

  A few said, “Yassuh,” or “We hears you, Boss.”

  “When I’ma talkin to alla y’all at the same time an I axe y’all do you hear me, ever nigguh betta stop whut he’s a-doin an answer me back ‘O Lord!’ If I’ma talkin to one a y’all, ‘fore you say ANYTHANG to me, you betta say aforehand ‘O Lord.’ Is that clear? I’m gonna say it again, an you nigguhs betta answer me right! DO YOU HEAR ME NIGGUHS!?”

  In unison, “OH LAWD!”

  “If you nigguhs don’t answer me back lak that when I’ma talkin to ya, then I’m gon b’leeve y’all tryin to big-ass me. An if I EVUH ketch any uv that ol’ punkin goin on in this squad, I’m gon kill ya!”

  We had been out on the yard about twenty minutes listening to his death sermon. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a spiral notepad and pencil, slowly sizing us up with his cold eyes. Back and forth, looking up and down the line, then settled them on me. “Ol’ Red!”

  Brain-locked, I fumbled out a partial “Yes …” then remembered the magic words, “Oh Lawd!”

  “Cum heah!” I walked over to him. “Kin you read an write?”

  “Oh Lawd! Yessuh.”

  Handing me the pencil and pad, “Go to the fer end an commence writin ‘em nigguhs’ names down, jes lak they’s lined up ‘ginst ‘at wall.” I turned to leave, “And put yore name down first!”

  “Oh Lawd! Speakin ta you, Boss. Do you want me to write these nigguhs’ real names down or they penitentiary names?”

  “Jes the real uns. I’ll learn the others as we go.”

  It was a near impossible task. Several of the cons couldn’t spell their names and neither could I. So we just guessed at it and I hoped he wouldn’t notice. After writing all the names I handed his pencil and pad back, and returned to my place at the end of the front line.

  He looked over the names for a moment, and closed the pad. “Awright, thas the way I wont y’all to ketch ‘em rows, jes lak yore name is writ in this book. You nigguhs gon wek zackly lak y’all lined up ‘ginst ‘at wall. If I ketch ary nigguh wekin on a row outta his place in ‘is book, I’m gon kill ‘em. Now, carry y’all’s asses on back in the buildin an be ready to meet that bell cum mornin. DO YOU HEAR ME NIGGUHS!?”

  “OH LAWD!”

  Walking away, he said over his shoulder, “Boss Band! Thas who I am.”

  Back inside the tank, I went straight to my bunk and flopped on it like a dead log, still in shock. I couldn’t believe he picked me to carry the first row. Me?! The littlest man in the squad? Whew, shit!! Gazing at the bottom of the bunk overhead, I thought of running away and even suicide. Fuck! I don’t want to be no lead row man, but his haunting words “if ary one uv you don’t do lak I tell ya, I’m gon kill ya” burned in my ears.

  My gloom was interrupted when I noticed Black Rider standing next to my bunk giving me the “last look” like I was already dead. He took a seat on the vacant bunk across from mine. “Man, he ain’ gon have but one gear for you ta put it in, an thas fass forwards. You sho gon hafta bear down on it an step on out, cuz us an him’s gon be right ‘hind yo lil’ ass all day long. An you bet not take no long chances, that muthafucka’s a crack shot. But many nigguhs he dun kilt, you already know that. Only nigguh he useta shoot at all the time wuz the lead row.”

  That evening I caught the chow line. After I sat down at the table, I couldn’t eat; my appetite was gone. My belly had more knots in it than a Navy rope and was growling like an old Philco radio dialed between stations. I tossed and turned all night and bolted upright awakening myself near daybreak, wringing wet with sweat. I knew it was useless to try to go back to sleep, “Alley, Boss!”

  “Lemme have ‘em, Boss!”

  My knees were shaking as I waited for the next call.

  “Number 1!”

  Like a lightning bolt, I charged down the hall with the Number 1 hoe squad right behind me. When the last man cleared the back steps, “You got twenty-six uv ‘em, Boss,” Cap’n Smooth hollered.

  “Thas right.”

  Clearing the backgate, we got our first work command from him, “Evuh nigguh gitta hoe!”

  Leading the pack, I veered for the hoe rack. In nothing flat, we had our aggies and took off like rats fleeing from a burning barn. My walking gait was good. Leaning into the wind, I balanced the hoe handle against the crook of my arm with the blade hoisted high in the air.

  “Ol’ Red!”

  “Oh Lawd!”

  “Head ‘em on ovah to that highline turnrow an ketch in.”

  “Oh Lawd!”

  Glancing over my shoulder, I saw the other squads coming behind in the distance. We were a good forty yards ahead of the closest one, Number 2. He galloped his horse to stay up with us as we burned rubber going down the turnrow. Three or four miles later we were there.

  “Tail row nigguh! Count off twenty-six rows. Y’all ketch ‘em, an git on ‘way frum heah!”

  After Bad Eye stepped off the first row, I caught it—just like it was “writ in the book.” I couldn’t remember the exact order I listed all the names, but I knew Cap Rock’s was the first after me. He got his push row position back. Because Bad Eye’s name was the last one on the list, he fell heir to Chinaman’s job.

  Thousands and thousands of empty rows stared us in the face. The workforce had to “air” the rows out by hacking and pulverizing the soil. It was close to planting time again and this helped dry the land out faster. We hacked down one side of a row to the end and came back hacking down the other side. The weather had been clear the last several days and the winter sun dried the top layer of soil.

  I was middle ways into the field on my row before I looked back and saw the last squad, Number 8, catching their rows. I sank my hoe blade deep as I could each time I dug it into the soft, black gumbo. We had to do more than just break the crust; the rows had to be flattened. On the way back down our rows, we passed Number 2 hoe. They were still about twenty yards from reaching the end for the first time.

  Even though a cool, crisp breeze blew across the fields, my shirt was sticking to my back. Just like the lawgiver said, “Ain’ gon be no dry nigguhs in my squad.” I gutted the inside of
my row each time I sank my aggie blade into the earth. It was still hard to believe I was the lead row man, the pacesetter.

  Lunch was short on the johnny ground. We were rushed through our meal by Cap’n Smooth, “Y’all betta hurry up an eat that ol’ hog an bread, an git on back out yonder an finish up them rows.”

  We made a pit stop at the water wagon and headed back to work. It ain’ as bad as I thought, I said to myself with each savage hack. Number 1 hoe had been sailing all day. None of the other squads even got near us. I was holding my own and keeping my row out front. We hacked up and down row after row after row. The sun was going down. Cap’n Smooth had left; Sundown was in charge. He would keep us out until the sun’s last glimmer. He didn’t hassle the cons but he sure hated to knock off.

  The other squads had slowed down just a hair as quitting time neared, but Number 1 hoe was still driving hard when somebody hollered, “Dere it is, it’s in th’ air!”

  We made a dash for the turnrow. After he counted, “Ol’ Red!”

  “Oh Lawd!”

  “Take ‘em on to that house. Go ‘Head! Hey Boss! Pull them Gotdam heifers ovah out the way, an let these Number 1 bulls cum on by,” Boss Band shouted up ahead. With the right-of-way cleared, “Ol’ Red! Bear down!”

  “Oh Lawd!” speeding up the walking cadence four more notches, causing the rest of the squad to strike up a trot.

  At the backgate we waited for Boss Band to check in his weapons and give the “go ‘head” signal, “Ol’ Red!”

  “Oh Lawd!”

  “Git over yonder! Resta y’all nigguhs, go ‘head!”

  For what? I dared not ask.

  I stood at the backgate until the last man in Number 8 hoe went through the gate. Out of all the 200-plus field workers, I was the only man cut out.

  After shakedown, Cap’n Smooth marched me through the gate. As we walked toward the building, “Speakin ta you, Cap’n.”

  “Whut?”

  “Cap’n, whut’d I git cut out for?”