Racehoss

by Albert Race Sample

  The next day we were three men short. Replacements for the Number 1 hoe were slow to come by. Elefin Head and Cryin Shame got a rare lay-in. They caught poison ivy and “swole” up so bad they couldn’t go to work. I saw them before we left the building and they were hardly recognizable. The last thing Elefin Head needed was for anything to swell up his head; it was already two sizes too big.

  Cryin Shame actually looked better. With his face swollen out of proportion, he wasn’t his regular old Neanderthal-looking self. He was so named because it was said, “He so ugly it’s a cryin shame.” He was ugly, not hideous, just plain ugly. And he knew it. Somebody in the tank was always jazzing him about his looks and said things to him awfully hard to take.

  “Ugly muthafucka, ain’ no tellin whut yo daddy musta ‘cused yo mama uv doin when he seed yo ugly ass.”

  “Nigguh, if yo daddy’s ugly is you, he got to be sumwhere in a zoo. Who you take afta?” Before he could answer, “Naw, don’t tell me! I don’t wanna know dere’s anutha muthafucka on earth ugly is you.”

  The cons cracked up at their facetious remarks, and Cryin Shame laughed right along with them. He was one of the non-violent types, pulling time for arson. Either he really didn’t understand what they were saying to him, or it didn’t matter. Maybe he was just glad to get some attention, even this kind.

  Their affliction gave me an idea. When we got back to the woods, I was going to get into some poison ivy so I could lay-in and rest up too. Soon as we reached our destination in the woods and started axing, I caught Boss Band not looking and made a beeline for the first patch of poison ivy I saw. I opened my shirt, scratched my chest and arms with some briars until I bled, then rubbed the poison ivy all over my scratched skin. I sneaked back to the crew and took up my position and resumed cutting.

  I was in misery the rest of the day. The salt in my sweat was burning the scratches and I was itching like crazy. That must be a sign it’s workin, I thought as I showered that evening. I could hardly wait until morning to wake up and be all swollen and get to lie back down. Next morning I immediately began inspecting myself. Nothing had happened. When Big Tom rang, it was back to the Big Top for me.

  Whether Boss Band knew it or not, we had grown accustomed to his style. He had a way of tipping his hand when he started fidgeting with his shotgun. This was one of those days. The activity in the woods was going full blast as we hacked our way deeper and deeper into the bottoms. The falling trees and noisy axes failed to quell the sound of gunshot. We paid little attention to it because some boss was always target practicing or shooting at “sumthin” in the woods. Our foursome continued cutting.

  Whitefolks kept his voice low as he picked up the brush near my crew, “Boss Band jes shot Rapehead! I thank he dead.”

  “For whut?” I asked.

  “Sshhh! Not so loud man, I don’t want ‘em thankin I’m meddlin in his bizness by tellin y’all.”

  We tapped the tree lightly with our axes, trying not to drown out his half-whispers. “I wuz throwin sum brush on th’ pile back dere, an jes turnt to leave when I heard th’ shot. I looked aroun an seen Rapehead fallin to th’ ground wit a hole in his bosom big as a black diamond watermelon! Boss Band wuz talkin to hissef lak he always do, an I heard him say sump’n bout Rapehead wuz tryin ta hide frum him ‘hind th’ pile.”

  Whitefolks left our area and went back to pulling brush. We passed the word along to the others. Sergeant Buzzard and two or three of the bosses working close by walked their horses over to “see.” Buzzard asked, “Whut happen, Boss?”

  “Rotten bastard tried to ‘scape. I had ta throw him away.”

  Buzzard leaned over his saddle and looked at the body, “You beat me to it.”

  Shortly, a pickup came and we loaded Rapehead’s body. Boss Band slow walked his horse over near my crew and stopped about fifteen feet away. Very seldom did he hold a conversation with any of us and rarely did any of the bosses talk to him, so he had a habit of talking to himself. Sometimes he would be close enough that we were able to overhear. Usually it sounded like senseless jabbering because the words were jumbled and mixed up, but not this time. We were working and watching him at the same time as he sat gazing off into the woods.

  “Rotten bastard, didn’t b’long in this squad, didn’t b’long on earth neitha. Sonuvabitch needed killin.”

  There was no question in my mind that he was taking us out one at a time. That evening when we got to the building, Rapehead’s body was lying on the back steps. All the squads had to step over him to get inside, a grizzly reminder of what would happen if we “tried to ‘scape.” I knew now what Tennessee told us had some truth to it. Boss Band was a traveling executioner with a mean streak in him a mile wide.

  That night in the tanks the mood was somber and unusually still. Whenever the prison got quiet the officials got worried, “Them nigguhs is plottin.” As long as the cons were grab-assing, fighting, snitching and lying on one another, the warden didn’t have any problems.

  I leaned off my bunk and whispered up to Black Rider, “Say man, wonder whut really made Boss Band so cold?”

  “Thas th’ way th’ muthafucka cum outta his mama’s belly.”

  I lay back down feeling he was right. It flashed across my mind like a neon sign, If we don’t hurry up an git outta them woods, ain’ gon be many uv us left.

  On Sunday morning, as usual, the inmate preachers were circulating in the tank encouraging different ones to attend the afternoon service held in the auditorium. We were one of the last units to get a chaplain. The job was given to a feeble old fart who looked like he already had one foot in the hereafter. He pastored over a small church on the outskirts of Brazoria. When he drove up in the parking lot, it took him five minutes just to get out of his car. With the use of his cane, he slow stepped his way straight to the warden’s office. Big Devil made a point to be in his office on the Sundays “Ol’ Preacher” was scheduled to preach. Their little chats usually lasted until chowtime.

  The inmate preachers would be watching and waiting for the moment he emerged from the warden’s office. When he did, they got the “Heah Ol’ Preacher cums” signal from the 4 tank lookouts. Excitedly, they started yelling to the picket boss, “Comin out, Boss! We gotta go hep da chaplain.”

  With standing orders from the warden, the picket boss unlocked the tank doors, “Alla you ol’ preachers thas gonna hep that ol’ parson, cum on outta thar!”

  They met him at the front gate, almost mobbing him as the eight or ten of them jockeyed for positions. One snatched his walking cane, nearly making him fall down, and two grabbed him under each arm and were practically carrying him. Another toted his huge Bible, and somebody else had his hat. The rest danced and frolicked in front of him all the way to the building.

  Once inside, they let him walk. He headed straight for the messhall with his followers dogging his heels. He wasn’t allowed to eat in the guards’ dining room, so he ate in the messhall with us. He was Uncle Tom, Uncle Mose, and Uncle Everybody Else all wrapped into one. And they treated him that way from the warden on down. To keep him from feeling too bad, the inmate preachers were allowed to sit at the table with him and keep him company. To further illustrate it was “nuthin personal,” they had the flunkies put a tablecloth on his table. After his belly was full of food and suckass adulation, the inmate preachers assisted him up the stairs to the auditorium.

  Upon arrival, another assisting crew took over. These less privileged “preacher-aides” weren’t allowed to eat with him, but helped him suit up in his pastoral attire. Robed, with a huge cross hanging around his neck like a cow bell, Preacher took his seat behind the portable pulpit among the six main deacons. They waited for the choir leader Molly and the Retrieve a cappella choir to complete their rendition of “Near O My God To Thee.”

  The choir finished and the deacons helped prop the old man up against the pulpit. All eyes were glued on him as we quieted down and readied ourselves for the sermon. Preacher raised his outstretche
d arms skyward, and called out, “Y’all know y’all got th’ best WARDEN in th’ system?” Looking back at the deacons, “Do I hear a amen on THAT!?”

  “A---men!! AaaaMen! Amen!”

  “I’m gon talk ta y’all today bout truf, amen. Truf, amen, thas whut we gon talk bout. Facts is one thang, but unfacts is sumthin else. We ain’ talkin bout unfacts, naw! We gon talk bout th’ TRUF!! If you know whut th’ TRUF is, then you know whut I’m talkin bout, amen? Suma y’all dun forgot whut th’ TRUF is, and you been livin in a daydream!!”

  Several “amens” came from the audience. Preacher was getting revved up. “How long will it be?! HOW LONG?!” he shouted at the ceiling. “How long is it gon take befo you cum into th’ light, an know th’ TRUF, th’ FACTS?!!” He had the main deacons stomping on the floor, shouting “amen” after “amen,” and nodding their heads in agreement with every statement.

  “Th’ TRUF!! Thas whut we heah to talk bout today.” Leaning forward over the pulpit, looking us straight in the eyes, “Y’all already know that most uv you b’long in heah. An y’all jes hafta ‘cept dat. I don’t hafta stand up heah an tell y’all dat. Y’all already knows it!! AMEN!!?”

  This “truf” was “amened” the loudest of all.

  “Talkin bout FACTS! If you didn’ b’long in heah, you wouldn’ be in heah. Suma y’all be dead if you wudn’ in heah. Dis place give y’all a new leash on life. Th’ Lawd’s been good ta y’all.”

  He was bombarded with “amens.”

  “Talkin bout FACTS! I don’t hafta tell y’all there’s only two ways outta heah. Y’all already know th’ mo trouble you make, th’ mo trouble you gits. Y’all oughta strive to please yo keepers, amen? Cuz if you STRIVEEEE,” covering his ear to keep from deafening himself, “to please yo keeper, th’ WARDEN will sholy set you free. AMEN? AMEN!! Thas th’ right way out. Or, you kin git buried heah, an hope yo spirit will leave. Amen?

  “Sumbody gotta speak for you. Sumbody thas got a word that mean sumthin. Th’ WARDEN kin speak them words, amen?”

  “Amen, amen”

  “It’s up to you whut you want him to say. Do YO PART! An you kin rest ashuured th’ WARDEN’S gon do his’n. It say rat heah in my Bible, talkin bout TRUF, amen? It say rat heah,” shouting louder while pointing to a page, “if you make one step towards me, I will make ten towards you. DO YO PART!! Lean on th’ LAWD an DO YO PART! GAWD! an th’ WARDEN will do th’ rest! And so, les pray.”

  Some had to be awakened to rise for prayer. We had all heard the “Warden Sermon” before, it was the only one he ever preached besides “The Eagle Stirred His Nest.” But, I thought he would have at least mentioned something about Rapehead.

  Preacher’s other pastoral duty was to be our counselor. But somehow, every problem any con went to him with was quickly solved by Big Devil. Preacher may have been a free man, but he was the biggest snitch around. It didn’t take long for us to figure out it was best not to confide in him. And for God’s sake, don’t ask him to do something like mail a letter. Instead of just saying “I can’t” and not do it, he went straight to the warden and snitched.

  The counseled ones kept getting their asses whupped by the bosses and building tenders after talking with Preacher and got wise to him. So, after church was dismissed the congregation fled. Only the deacons, inmate preachers, and preacher-aides remained behind to help him take the holy harness off and hold a special prayer service. After ministering unto the flock, it was time for him to leave, and they escorted Preacher back to the front gate until next time.

  It was no secret that Number 1 hoe was working under a whimsical maniac who drove us mercilessly from sunup to sundown. After Boss Band killed Rapehead, we developed a million and one new ways to watch him while we worked. When he scratched his head, we flinched. When he farted, we saw it. When he changed positions in the saddle, we held our breaths and readied ourselves to duck. Knowing he would kill any of us without hesitation or reservation, we watched him much closer than he watched us. In his heyday, Road Runner’s fastest gait would have been too slow for the torturous pace we maintained for this man. Even though we worked the hardest and fastest, we knew death sat on a horse just a few feet behind us.

  One day while we were chopping cotton, “Ol’ Baby Raper!” Boss Band called.

  “Oh Lawd!”

  “Cum back heah, nigguh!” Baby Raper trotted over to him and pulled off his flop-down hat. Pointing with his shotgun, “Git that weed you left thar!” Baby Raper nudged the cotton stalk with his hoe, searching for the weed. Boss Band glared at him, raised his shotgun and cut loose with both barrels. He didn’t even change expressions as Baby Raper fell to the ground.

  Cap’n Smooth rode his horse over, “Why’d you havta waste that nigguh?”

  “Well, a nigguh wit a name lak that ain’ got no bizness livin, an he damn sho didn’ b’long in my squad.” Then, “Ol’ Chinaman! Ol’ Bad Eye!”

  “Oh Lawd!”

  “Drag that rotten bastard out yonder on the turnrow.” When they returned to the squad, “Sum more uv you nigguhs gonna git a load uv buckshot in yore ass if you don’t tighten up! Ol’ Racehoss!”

  “Oh Lawd!” Am I next?

  “Go ‘Head!”

  Ears laid back, I accelerated my chopping cadence. I don’t know how, but I put it on autopilot and easily pulled away from the squad. “Y’all betta lay wit ‘em!” he hollered and shot in the ground behind them.

  One day he called me back in the squad, “Ol’ Racehoss, is you evuh wondered how cum I ain’ dun kilt yore yaller ass?”

  “Oh Lawd! Nawsuh, Boss!”

  “Well, I’ll tell you why. I don’t let nobody pick the nigguhs I kill. I’ll do that myself.”

  We had cleaned the cotton out of the fields and the tractor squad had plowed the stalks under. We were pulling the last ears of corn off the stalks right across the turnrow from the building when the afternoon sky suddenly turned to night. The lightning in the distance looked as if it were slashing a great big blackberry pie.

  Cap’n Smooth ordered, “Awright, raisem up! Let’s git in that house!”

  Boss Band hollered, “Ol’ Racehoss, you bet not let my hoss git wet!” Fifteen seconds later we were running through the backgate. Boss Band parked his horse under the shed. Thank God that big motherfucker didn’t get wet, or he would have cut loose with that shotgun sure as hell. Rain and hail pounded at our heels as we sped through the back door. It was so dark they had turned on all the lights inside.

  Heavy thunder jarred the building with every rumble. We barely made it to our tanks before the building tenders were calling, “Chowtime!” Chowtime? What in the hell was going on? We already ate lunch and didn’t know why we were marching to the messhall in early afternoon to eat again.

  No sooner had we gotten back in our tanks than a deafening clap of thunder boomed, instantly followed by a huge bolt of lightning that struck something nearby, causing the whole unit to go black.

  Cap’n Foots called for some of the maintenance squad, which consisted of the fifteen white cons, to go check the power plant that was three hundred yards from the building and close to the front entrance. They were gone a long time but never did get the electricity on. Backup generators, producing about as much light as a birthday cake candle, had to be used.

  “Damn, thas a bad muthafucka out dere,” Black Rider said in a troubled tone.

  “I been in twelve calendars. Shit, dis th’ worst un I seen yet,” Cap Rock added.

  September 1961, Hurricane Carla struck the Texas Gulf Coast with a fury. We huddled in the dark tanks as she was kicking ass outside. The employees who lived on the premises within shadow distance of the prison brought their families to the building for refuge and went in the messhall to wait out the storm. So that’s why we ate early.

  I watched the water scale the tank walls inch by inch. The bosses said to pull our mattresses off our bunks and take them with us, then moved the 3 and 4 tank inhabitants upstairs into 5 tank and the 1 and 2 tank cons i
nto the auditorium with the white boys. Hence, all 400-plus hardcore convicts were stacked on top of one another.

  Because the water had swelled almost knee-high on the lower level, the families moved to higher ground. Now they were lined up like crows on the stairwell, in the hallway that led to the hospital, and in the narrow corridor outside the bars from us. They tried not to look at us, but did every chance they got.

  Everybody connected with the prison (convicts, bosses and their families, the warden, his wife, son and four daughters) was jammed together either on the stairwell or the second floor, with only bars between us. The water was rising, as was the fear of being drowned like a bunch of rats in a sewer, unsettling to one and all. We hoped it wouldn’t climb any higher, but it did steadily. The families were forced to scoot higher on the stairwell, making those in the narrow corridor crowd closer to 5 tank and to us. So close, we could have reached through the bars and touched them.

  An uprooted tree slammed through the messhall wall, causing startled screams from those on the stairs and uneasiness throughout the upper level. With the torrential rain hammering, water poured into the gaping hole and flooded the first floor six-feet deep. It disappeared entirely as plumbing and other objects floated around in the debris-laden lake below us. When night fell we were in pitch darkness, except for flashlights and cigarette lighters flickering here and there. Near fights and plenty of pushing and shoving went on inside the packed tank.

  Daylight brought receding waters. Before the next night fell, the families were gone. We reassembled into our humble abode downstairs, which was still ankle-deep in water. Cons with push brooms shoved the remnants of Carla’s havoc to another bunch, so they could thrust it on down the hallway with their brooms and out the back door. Mother Nature was a messy bitch to clean up after.