Racehoss

by Albert Race Sample

  Only able to elicit an occasional “yep” out of Boss Nobles, Eatem Up talked about everything from their low salaries to the weather, but hadn’t come up with a topic yet that interested him. “Whar you frum, Boss?”

  “West Texas.”

  “Well, I’m frum Conroe mysef. Got me a big ol’ fat half-Injun woman ta cook biscuits an hep keep me warm in th’ winnertime,” spitting tobacco juice on the ground. “I go home on th’ weekends I ain’ on duty. Wit a job lak this, a man’s sho gotta regulate his fuckin, ain’t he?”

  Boss Nobles never cracked a smile.

  “Say, didja evah hear th’ one bout th’ nigguh an white man that wuz on death row? Well, I’ll tell it to you jes in case you ain’t. See, they had this nigguh an this white man on death row. They wuz in cells side by side. An they wuz gon hang ‘em th’ next mornin. Well, that nite that fuckin ol’ white thang wuz up most uv th’ nite pacin back an forth jus a bawlin. It got on that nigguh’s nerves an he hollered an tole ‘em, ‘Shet up all ‘at cryin an go to sleep.’ That ol’ white thang hollered back, ‘How kin I sleep? Don’tcha realize they gon hang me in th’ mornin!?’ That nigguh tole ‘em, ‘Well, I ain’ cryin an they gon hang me too.’ That ol’ white thang said, ‘Yeah, I know, but y’all’s use to it!’”

  Boss Eatem Up doubled over with laughter. Seeing no response from Boss Nobles, he said, “Say Boss, you sho don’t talk much, do ya? You know I been a-tryin ta git sumbody to lissen to me fer pert near six years,” looking real serious. “I got a invention that’d cut th’ cost uv pickin this damn cotton ta nuthin. Won’t nobody lissen. Best part is, it won’t hardly cost nuthin to git it goin. It’d save on manpower an everthang.”

  Finally, he got a response. “How’re you gonna do that?”

  “Ah ha, gotcha ‘tention, did it?! I betcha wanna git in on sum uv th’ profits, don’tcha?”

  “What kind uv invention is it?”

  “Well, it ain’ zackly whut you might call a invention cuz it’s been roun furever. It’s plain as th’ nose on yore face, but people jes ain’ smart nuff to use it. I garn-dam-teeya, it weks ever time. I’ll tell you whut it is, but you gotta promise to keep it to yoresef.”

  He had Boss Nobles’ attention.

  “Tell you whut we kin do,” looking all around like he was about to divulge some deep, dark secret. “We kin git us a boat an go out in th’ ocean an git us suma them octopussies, brang ‘em back an crossbreed ‘em wit these nigguhs. We’ll have us sum eight-row-at-a-time cotton pickers that’ll run on plain ol’ watermelon juice!”

  He cracked up at the way he had pulled the new boss’s leg. Boss Nobles waited until Eatem Up had stopped laughing, “Boss, I want you to git away frum me an my squad. And I don’t want you comin around no more with that kind uv talk. You stay away frum us. Do I make myself clear?”

  The seriousness in his voice was enough to convince Eatem Up to leave. He turned his horse and headed back to his own squad. Before he left, “If thas th’ way you feel bout it, hell, I wuz jesta funnin you.”

  Boss Nobles had passed his first test.

  We were going through the cotton like a cyclone for the third time, picking the “tags,” scrap cotton left in the bolls. This would be used to make clothes and bedding for the prison population. I was into my seventh cotton picking season and all doubts were settled who was the fuckin best.

  At the beginning of the season, Cap Rock and I squared off in a cotton picking shootout with six decks of squares bet. I beat that chump by ninety pounds. It was sweet revenge for the days he picked off my row under Boss Deadeye. He finally knew his place in the squad—behind me. Now my cotton weights topped the field. And I didn’t need to piss in my sack no more.

  It was early September, and we were more than three-quarters finished with our cotton crop. We finished first every year. Big Devil got the glory by being nominated each year for the “Warden of the Year” award. He was the only one in the system to win it four years in succession. Naturally, he was going for five.

  His strategy was to pull us out of the field along with the other top three squads and send us over to one of the other farms to “hep ‘em out.” This left the remaining four squads to keep on picking what was left of our crop until we returned, which was his way of letting it be known his farm was so far ahead it could finish first with half the squads. We had been assembled in the auditorium for Big Devil’s preparatory speech.

  “I’m gonna send y’all over to th’ Clemens farm to give ‘em a hand. We fur nuff ‘long wit ours to be outta danger befo bad weather hits. Clemens dun fell way behind this year. Ain’ no way they gon git dun by rodeo time, ‘less we go hep ‘em. Suma you nigguhs been over there befo, an suma you ain’t. Fur the benefit uv them that ain’t an as a reminder to them that is, I’m gonna warn you now if y’all fuck up over there, you gon git punished over there. Y’all will be under that warden’s jurisdiction. I’m out uv it.

  “How many uv you nigguhs been over there befo? Raise yore hands.” I raised mine along with the majority. “I’m gonna send the lieutenant ‘long wit y’all’s bosses, an he’ll be in charge. I want y’all to go over there an behave y’all’s selves an don’t be a-fuckin wit them nigguhs. Y’all will be leavin first thang in the mornin.”

  Clemens, another all-black unit, housed mostly first offenders. Many of us “graduated” from there. It had nearly twice as many cons as “hell” with its 750-plus count. They could field an army of workers compared to us. True, we had grown to 447, but half were dog boys, cooks and messhall flunkies, houseboys, garden squad, tractor squad, lot squad, shop squad, dairy squad, turnkeys, building tenders, commissary clerks, and so on. This left eight hoe squads in the fields, with twenty to thirty men each, to maintain over 16,000 acres under cultivation.

  The following morning we were loaded onto two metal-caged cattle trucks. With about fifty cons to a truck, the Number 1 and 2 hoe squads were inside the cage on the first truck, and Number 3 and 4 were in the other one. The trucks had seats welded to the floor outside the cages for two bosses to sit on. Boss Nobles and Cochise sat at the rear while Sundown rode in the cab with the driver. Pickups pulling trailers with the horses and dogs brought up the rear.

  We ate thirty minutes early, and the sun was barely rising when we got on the highway. The fifteen-mile trip took about half an hour and the driver drove us straight to the field. Heading down the turnrow to unload, we passed the Clemens squads in the field working. Some stopped picking long enough to wave and cheer as we sped by. They knew help was on the way. I counted fourteen squads as we went by and saw two packs of dogs as we passed their dog boy.

  I thought about how their dogs compared to ours. Theirs were healthy and full bodied; ours were so skinny their ribs could be counted and their hip bones stuck out noticeably. Our old dogs looked as though there wasn’t an ounce of life left in them, but those bastards would run a convict until doom’s day. They were just like us—lean and mean.

  When the trucks stopped we were about a mile from the Clemens workers. After our four squads unloaded we had to wait—no cotton sacks. Sundown was madder than hell. Clemens was supposed to furnish everything. While waiting for the sacks to be delivered I couldn’t help but notice the condition of the cotton. It was tall, and full of morning glory vines and Johnson grass, as if it had never been hoed.

  About five minutes later the water wagon arrived with some sacks. All regulation eleven footers. I couldn’t remember the last time we used eleven-foot sacks. We quickly gobbled up the pile, grabbing two sacks apiece. As the water boy turned his wagon around to leave, Sundown asked, “Is this all th’ sacks y’all got? I kin tell you now, this ain’t enuff to hold this bunch. You betta git us sum more. By th’ time you git back, suma these ol’ bullies’ll be waitin.”

  “Yassuh, I be rat back.”

  “Boss Nobles, go right down yonder whar that turnrow makes a L an y’all ketch in an brang ‘em rows on back thisa way.”

  When Sundown finished, “Racehoss,
let’s git ‘em started,” Boss Nobles said.

  I caught my usual two rows and took off. The stalks were loaded and by the time I picked to the end, I had a full sack. I tied a knot in the end of it, got a green boll, marked “Racehoss” on it, and left it lying on the turnrow. Several others had filled their first sack too, and were changing harnesses.

  My second sack was over half full when the water boy came back. When I reached the end this time, I dropped another, marked it, and grabbed two more. The others who needed them did the same. We finished picking about three sets of rows before Sundown decided it was time for us to weigh up.

  “Boss Nobles, brang yores on outta thar an les go weigh up.”

  When we reached the area where they had set up the scales, Big Devil and the Clemens warden, who the cons had dubbed “Silly Willy,” sat on the hoods of their cars waiting to hear our weights. I slung my two and three-quarter sacks of damp cotton across the scales, and their weight checker did a double take before hollering out, “He’s got 265!” Silly Willy didn’t believe it and made me hang them back on the scales again. It was right the first time. Cap Rock’s wasn’t much different, 240.

  To empty up I had to pass them, and Silly Willy asked, “Whut do y’all call that nigguh?”

  “Ol’ Racehoss.”

  “I kin damn sho see why,” and he offered to swap three trusties for me.

  Big Devil just looked at him and grinned, then hollered at me, “Ol’ Racehoss, you betta quit layin back on that sack an go ta gittin me sum more cotton!”

  “Yessuh!”

  He told Silly Willy, “Hell, that nigguh’s been out there fuckin aroun. ‘Sides, they got a late start.”

  Not a weight in Number 1 hoe was less than 200 pounds. We got a quick drink and headed back. Word traveled about how much cotton we weighed up compared to the Clemens squads. On that first weigh up, our four squads picked “almost forty bales” Sundown said. He told us we wouldn’t weigh up again until after lunch, which meant another hour of picking.

  At lunchtime, we loaded onto their tractor-drawn trailers and rode to the building instead of running. “Yea!” Once we got there we were quickly ushered up to the auditorium, which would be our living quarters for the next few days. It had been prearranged that we, the visitors, would go to the messhall last.

  The inside picket boss told us, “When I call y’all, I wont y’all to go in the messhall in yore own squad so’s I kin git anutha count. An that warden wonts y’all to stay together, an not be a-mixin up wit our nigguhs.”

  We lined up by squads at the top of the stairs and waited. The mess steward beckoned when he was ready, “Okay, y’all kin go on in.”

  The Clemens cons were already eating before we were allowed to enter. A special section had been reserved with a row of empty tables purposely left to keep us separated. A complete hush fell over the messhall when I walked in with all those big motherfuckers behind me. They stopped eating and gazed as we passed their tables. Boss Band had made my “name” and the Number 1 hoe a legend in the bottoms.

  Their stares told how we must have looked, and made me realize how different we were. Because of Boss Band we’d been nicknamed the “death squad.” Compared to the Clemens cons, we did look like the walking dead.

  They had a fresh from the crate appearance, still wrapped in baby fat. We looked tough and driven. Our heads were markedly balder and our eyes were hidden hollows that used our faces for backgrounds. Sunken cheeks revealed jowls protruding against hard, weathered faces.

  We were raggedy as a nickel mop. Our sleeveless shirts exposed arms like coils of steel. Our britches were full of patches and held up with shoelaces and pieces of rope; they wore belts. They watched and whispered as we ate in sullen silence. Seeing us probably did more to rehabilitate them than anything they had seen thus far. They saw how they could end up if they kept using the prison as a revolving door. We were the epitome of what the system could do, and had done.

  After lunch we picked our way closer and closer to the Clemens workforce. Suddenly, Tarzan let go with his famous jungle scream. Boss Nobles’ horse reared and bucked. It must have scared the new boss half to death. This was his first Tarzan yell experience since he’d been working us. After he got his horse quieted down, he managed a weak smile, “What on earth wuz that all about?”

  “Ain’ nuthin, Boss. Ol’ Tarzan jes made a ketch,” Thirty-Five rendered.

  Boss Nobles was still confused until he saw Tarzan bite the head off that lizard and start chomping. He almost fell over backwards. He rode off a ways and started puking. When he came back, his face was beet red and he was still wiping his mouth with a bandanna. After regaining some composure, “Damn! Does he do that all the time?”

  Bad Eye answered, “Naw Boss, jes when he ketch sump’n.”

  Boss Nobles had been officially welcomed into the Number 1 hoe squad.

  It was after two o’clock and we hadn’t weighed up since we got back from lunch. With all the cotton in our sacks that we didn’t weigh up before, our next weights would really be heavy. I had filled up my third when Sundown signaled for us. No one in the squad had less than two. When we got out of the cotton patch onto the turnrow, Sundown immediately noticed that we were just “totin a lil’ dab” to the scales.

  He stopped us, “Whar’s th’ resta y’all’s cotton? I know damn well this ain’ all y’all dun picked.”

  Boss Nobles said, “Lieutenant, they filled up so many sacks I told ‘em to leave ‘em on the other turnrow. Ain’t no way they could tote all that cotton to the scales.”

  “Awright Boss, y’all take whutcha got on to the scales an wait.” Sundown radioed Big Devil, “This is walkie-talkie three to walkie-talkie one.”

  “Yeah, go ‘head, Lieutenant.”

  “Whut’s yore twenny, Warden?”

  “I’m over heah by Dow Chemical. Whut’s th’ trouble?”

  “We got a problem, Warden. These nigguhs dun picked more cotton than they kin tote. ‘Less we piss ant it, we ain’ got no way to git it to th’ scales.”

  “Y’all jes stay where you at. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Ten four?”

  “Ten four.”

  Over Sundown’s walkie-talkie, we heard Big Devil transmitting with Silly Willy. “Walkie-talkie one Retrieve to walkie-talkie one Clemens.”

  “Yeah, I heard,” Silly Willy responded. “Whutta you wont me to do?”

  “Well, fer starters, you kin git them trailers out to th’ field an haul our cotton to the scales. Thas whut them trailers is fer anyhow.”

  “Jes hold yore hosses, Zan. I’ll gitcha sum trailers headed thatta way. Ten four?”

  “Ten four.”

  By the time the tractor drivers brought our sacks and we sorted them out, Silly Willy and the entire Clemens field hierarchy had gathered. Even “Beartracks,” the Ramsey warden, was there. He must have been in the vicinity and heard the message too.

  “He’s got 315.” I quickly unhitched my sacks and emptied.

  While waiting for the others, Big Devil called me, “Ol’ Racehoss, cum over heah.”

  As I approached his car I removed the bandanna I wore in lieu of a flop-down hat, “Yessuh.”

  “How much you have?”

  “315, Warden.”

  “How much you have this mornin?”

  “265.”

  He was having a field day showing off before the other two wardens. “Thank you gon git me a thousand today?”

  “I will if we stay late enuff.”

  Beartracks asked, “This lil’ ol’ nigguh evah picked a thousand pounds befo?”

  “I don’t know, have ya Ol’ Racehoss?”

  “Nawsuh, not yet.”

  Beartracks continued, “I got a nigguh over on my farm we call Thousand Poun Blue I’d lak to see tie down wit yore nigguh.”

  “Thank you kin beat ‘em, Ol’ Racehoss?”

  “Yessuh, I kin beat ‘em.”

  While the wardens detained me, Boss Nobles took the squad back to the
field. When I got back, I told them about the contest they were setting up.

  At the day’s end our four squads beat the Clemens workforce so bad, Silly Willy punished all fourteen squads. That evening when we got to the building, the Clemens pickers almost overflowed the yard standing on barrels and soda water boxes. They were hanging in the halls and the pissers were full. We really jobbed them, but it wasn’t done maliciously, just naturally.

  Early the following morning the three wardens converged on the turnrow for the “cottonathon.” After leaving the conference site, Sundown came and got me. It had been decided the contestants would pick in a separate cut, and Sundown would oversee the race.

  Out on the turnrow, with Sundown walking his horse close behind me, “Ol’ Racehoss, I heard that ol’ nigguh frum Ramsey kin pick pretty good. I tell you one thang, that man sho been a braggin on you. Thar’s a lot ridin on this contest, if you know whut I mean,” indicating side bets were made.

  “Yessuh.”

  The other two contestants had been assembled by the time we got there. Soon as I walked up, “Ol’ Racehoss, lay yore sack over yonder ‘side th’ turnrow. We gonna give y’all sum fresh uns. First, lemme go over the rules wit you, I dun tole these two. We don’t want no buncha leaves, stalks an stems put in them sacks. If y’all git caught wit any mudballs in them sacks, I can’t speak fer these other wardens, but I’m gon do sump’n to yore ass. Is ‘at clear?”

  “Yessuh.”

  “We agreed to give th’ winner two cartons uv cigarettes. Second place’ll git one carton, an third gits five packs.”

  While Big Devil talked to me, the two cons had stood off to one side. When he finished he motioned for them. “Ol’ Racehoss, do you know these other two nigguhs?”

  “Nawsuh.”

  “Well, the next thang we oughta do is innerduce y’all,” he said smiling at the wardens. “This nigguh heah is Ol’ Totem Pole, an this’n’s Ol’ Thousand Poun Blue.”