Silly Willy entered Totem Pole, the lead row in Clemens’ Number 1 hoe squad. They threw him in for good measure, I guess. He didn’t look a day over twenty-one and was a tall, gangling con whose profile did resemble a totem pole. Just by looking at him, I knew he didn’t have a chance. He didn’t look hard enough yet.
Thousand Poun Blue, on the other hand, looked more like us. He was stockily built, about thirty or so. His clothes were the same dingy gray, and just as raggedy. His alleged cotton picking prowess, coupled with his blue-black complexion, had earned him the moniker. He was the lead row in the Number 1 hoe squad at Ramsey, which was a repeat offender unit, housing white and black cons—segregated of course.
All the time Big Devil talked to me, Thousand Poun Blue was giving me the once over. Now, face to face, we stared at each other like two well-seasoned warriors about to do battle. Both of us completely ignored the youngster from Clemens.
We got fourteen footers this time. Big Devil must have brought them. He told Sundown to get us started. As we walked away, Thousand Poun Blue turned to Beartracks, “Warden, Suh, kin we hav any kind uv cigarritts we wonts?”
“Any kind you wont, Ol’ Blue,” as if it were already in the bag.
Heading to where we were going to pick, Sundown gave us final instructions, “When y’all gitta sackfulla ‘at stuff, git out uv it an leave it lay. Sumbody’ll be by to pick ‘em up. Y’all betta be sho an mark y’all’s sacks good so’s you kin tell ‘em apart. Anutha thang, how many rows y’all ketch is up ta y’all. You kin pick one at a time or a dozen at a time. Don’t make a shit ta me.”
The cut selected for us was some of Clemens’ best. It was low, about three feet tall, and loaded. The soil was semi-soft from the morning dew, just right for fast crawling.
Totem Pole asked, “Lieutenant, Suh, how you wont us to ketch in? I mean who you wont to carry th’ furst row?”
“Don’t make a shit ta me.”
It wasn’t hard working that out among ourselves after Thousand Poun Blue caught the first two rows and lit out. Totem Pole was next and I ended up in third position. We caught two rows apiece. Totem Pole had good hand speed, but he was fighting it. Middle ways into the field, he fell back into the low part of the V. Blue and I were picking side by side.
I began to pull away from him, slightly. I knew that once I got ahead, that was it. I reached the turnrow first and caught the first set of rows coming back, “my” rows. Sundown told us when we got to the end, “Jus wheel aroun an head back th’ other way.” I beat Blue to the end by about four cotton stalks.
I straightened up to rest my back a second and saw the wardens watching us with binoculars. Now Blue was picking in the middle and Totem Pole was third on the outside. Since I had no idea how long we were going to pick before we weighed up, I let it all hang out while the cotton was still damp.
When I got to the end of my second set of rows, I had another full sack. Empties were at the ends of each set if we needed them. Looking up at the cloudless sky, the sun said it was around ten o’clock. Sundown had us pick on. It was close to lunchtime when he finally gave the signal. The water boy picked up our full sacks and had them lying on the side of the turnrow when we got to the scales.
Totem Pole weighed up first. “He’s got 220,” the weight caller hollered. Blue hung his two and a quarter sacks on the scales, “He’s got 240.” I hung mine, “He’s got 275.”
Beartracks looked at Sundown and asked, “Where in th’ hell did that nigguh git all that cotton frum?”
In his customary nonchalant manner, Sundown took a puff from his cigarette and looked off in the horizon. “You ain’ seen nuthin. Hell, I ain’ even hollered at ‘em yet.”
We barely got back to picking before Sundown knocked us off for lunch. This was the first time I had been with my squad since the contest began. Soon as I got on the trailer they started firing questions. “How much you have?”
“275.”
“How much they have?!”
“That Clemens nigguh had 220; the nigguh frum Ramsey had 240.”
The Clemens messhall was buzzing when we entered. “That nigguh frum Retrieve beat both uv them nigguhs th’ furst weigh in.”
“Fuck, I don’t know why dey even put Totem Pole in it. Shit, I kin beat dat nigguh.”
“I heard that nigguh Racehoss is a walkin gin.”
When we got back to picking after lunch, I could tell that a lot of the wind had gone out of my two opponents’ sails. I picked on away from them, stopping only to mark the full sacks I left strewn up and down my middles. The hot, broiling sun dried all the early September dew from the cotton. I knew my weight would be lighter the next weigh up, but so would theirs.
Sundown gave the signal to knock off. This time when we headed for the scales, I walked the lead point of our arrowhead formation. Blue and Totem Pole were already conceding.
I hung my three on the scales first and had 260, Blue weighed up 225, and Totem Pole had 215. We got a drink and headed back. One more to go.
I was picking with an easy gait, and we all were picking one row at a time now. They were struggling and knew the race was over for them. In my mind it was over before it started. Hell, I had picked cotton under the Band and Deadeye. These chumps didn’t stand a chance. Sundown interrupted my thoughts when he rode up beside me, “Ol’ Racehoss, how long you been out in the fields?”
“Bout seven years, Lieutenant.”
He was a man of few words. After the question, he walked his horse back to his original position behind us, looked out over the fields and lit a Marlboro.
All the squads had been knocked off for the last weigh up. The Clemens cons were amassed on one side of the turnrow and the Retrieve bunch on the other. Silly Willy ordered quiet so our last weights could be heard. I hung my two sacks on the scales and the Clemens captain hollered, “Ol’ Racehoss got 185.”
The convict weight keeper quickly tallied my total and handed the figures to the captain. “Thas a total uv 720 pounds fer Ol’ Racehoss.” Blue hung his up next, “He’s got 195, fer a total uv 660.” Then Totem Pole, “He’s got 170, fer a total uv 605. Ol’ Racehoss is th’ winner!”
Beartracks, a six-foot-seven Goliath, jumped off the hood of his car, rushed over to Thousand Poun Blue and hit him in the face, knocking him down. A sore loser, Beartracks stomped the shit out of him right then and there. I was glad this was our last day here. I was ready to go back “home.” I know the Clemens bunch was glad to see us leave.
Big Devil must have radioed ahead because we had fried pork steaks and mashed potatoes with gravy waiting. It reminded me of the time the grand jury convened in Brazoria County and came out to the unit for lunch. It was in July, but turkey and dressing with all the trimmings was served on the line.
Big Devil came to the messhall. “I’m gonna let y’all lay-in this weekend. Y’all git them crops finished up this comin week an we’ll have ice cream next Sadday.”
A weekend lay-in during cotton picking season was as scarce as the hair on our heads. Working seven days a week with a short half on Sunday was a grinding three-month pace. About ten o’clock the next morning, the commissary clerk called me to the commissary and told me I had three cartons of cigarettes to “spend.”
“Boss Nobles cum by an paid fer one uv ‘em.”
When I finished swap-shopping I had a carton left. I bought a new razor and blades, three cans of toothpowder, several bars of sweet soap, lighter fluid for my old Zippo, two bags of oatmeal cookies, and a couple cans of sardines. Enough supplies to last me awhile. Not a bad day’s work, I thought as I reentered the tank carrying my goodies. I loaned out five packs for the two packs interest they would bring, and saved the others to gamble with and smoke.
With two days to rest, what was left of our cotton crop didn’t last as long as a snowball in hell, and we got our ice cream.
After that, we did light work until rodeo time. The next crop season would be stripping and cutting the sorghum cane. Our year was bro
ken down into four crop seasons: (1) chopping cotton in early spring, (2) picking it in mid to late summer combined with pulling corn, (3) harvesting sorghum cane in the fall, (4) flatweeding, cleaning the shit ditches, cutting timber, and digging stumps in the winter.
I had never been to a prison rodeo. We were more than a hundred miles from the Walls (Huntsville Unit) and I didn’t like the idea of freezing my balls off in those open-air trucks. It starts the first Sunday in October, and is held every Sunday during the month. Retrieve was scheduled to go the fourth Sunday this year along with the other two Brazos Bottoms units, Ramsey and Clemens.
The rodeo list had been posted with all those eligible to go. Going to the rodeo was a “privilege, not a right.” All the trusties’ names headed the list, then the tractor drivers and others who had “jobs,” then the field workforce. Big Devil used the Hog Law book to determine who could go from the field workers.
After I reviewed the list and saw my name, I had to write the warden a note like I’d done in the past, asking (he didn’t like the word request because he said it was too much like demanding) that my name be taken off. To some, going to the rodeo was the big event of the year.
Chinaman, my regular domino partner, came to the table where I was playing. “Say Race, is you goin to th’ rodeo?”
It was my play, “I don’t know if I’m goin or not.”
He waited until I made my play, “Well, when you gon know, man?”
“Why?”
“Cuz we wanna know, das why.”
“Whut we?”
“Alla us in th’ squad.”
There was no use trying to ignore him, he wasn’t about to go away. I had known him long enough to know that sometimes he was a pain in the ass. “Whut the fuck is my goin got to do with y’all goin?”
“Well, if you ain’ goin, den dey say dey ain’ goin, which means I ain’ goin, which means I miss my chance ta see suma dem big-leg brown sugars. So I wish you’d make up yo mind so I know whut ta tell ‘em.”
Trying to concentrate on the game and listen to him at the same time, “Look man, I’ll letcha know!” He left, only to take a seat on one of the nearby benches. Slamming down five-trey, killing Beer Belly’s double-trey, I hollered, “Domino! Count ‘em up, muthafucka.”
When the game ended, “Say Race, man, is you made up yo mind yet?” Then he poured it on, “Look Race, man, you don’t know whut you missin. Sum uv dem ol’ gals goin by in cars sho be settin high. Shit, they knows who we is ‘n do it jes so we kin see. An dem broads at th’ rodeo hav on britches so tight, man, if you stuck a pin in ‘em dey’d bust.”
Enthusiastically, “Shit, man! I don’t go up dere to watch dem nigguhs git bucked off no hosses ‘n tryin to ride sum big o’ musty-assed bulls. I go to hussle me sum jack stuff. Man, I ‘membuh last year when we went up dere. I seed a broad wit a ass so big an fine it give me night fits. When we got back I nelly jacked mysef to death.”
I pondered for a minute all he’d been telling me and thought what the hell. I could sure use some jack material. I’d just about used up all my memories. “Okay, man, I’m goin,” I said, “an you quit followin me fuckin with me!”
Saturday night before the fourth Sunday in October, Big Devil walked underneath the picket, “Boss, open up all uv them tank doors an send them nigguhs in the messhall thas goin to that rodeo!”
“Alla you nigguhs thas goin to that ol’ rodeo, the warden wonts y’all in the messhall!” as steel doors opened and closed in a frenzy. Everybody seemed to simply go crazy when the warden spoke, bosses and cons alike.
Big Devil walked through the messhall barking commands, “Cap’n, I want you to have them laundry nigguhs brang a set uv clothes in heah fer alla these nigguhs. I want ever nigguh to have a new pair a brogans an a belt. Brang ‘em a pair a drawers. Let them nigguhs try on them clothes to make sho they git a good fit.” He never stopped walking. “Give ‘em sum socks too,” I heard him say while passing through another door being held ajar by the turnkey. “I don’t want these nigguhs goin to them Walls lookin lak a bunch uv hobos. An git ‘em all a shave an fresh haircut.”
“Yessir, Warden. I’ll take care uv it.”
“Take care my ass! I want it dun now!”
Cap’n Foots left the messhall running. Later, we went back to our tanks with an armload of Christmas in October garments.
At four a.m. the call went out, “Alla you nigguhs whut’s a-goin to that ol’ rodeo, les go eat!”
We were rushed through our meal and remained seated. A few minutes later Big Devil came in, all decked out and strutting like a palace guard. He was going too.
The cage-fitted cattle trucks backed inside the yard close to the back door. “Awright, y’all listen up heah,” Cap’n Foots ordered. “When I call y’all’s name gimme yore number ‘n go on down th’ hall ‘n git on th’ truck!”
Big Devil waited near the back door to inspect us and see that we loaded sixty to a truck. Within the hour, our three trucks cleared the farm with Big Devil leading the way in his freshly waxed Chevrolet. As soon as we got to the highway, sheriff and highway patrol cars were waiting to escort us to their line of jurisdiction. Another group was waiting when we entered the next county. It was daybreak before we reached the Ramsey and Clemens trucks waiting to join the convoy at a highway intersection.
Unfortunately, we had Boss Eatem Up riding at the back of our cage. “I’m gonna tell y’all sump’n, I ain’ gon have y’all a-hollerin out th’ sides a this truck at them ol’ nappy-headed gals. Furst nigguh I ketch a-wavin ‘n a-gawkin gon git sump’n dun ta his goat-smellin ass. I wont you nigguhs to be quiet! Nuther thang, y’all ain’ gon be a runnin all over this Gotdam truck.”
I wondered how in the hell we were going to be “runnin all over” when we were almost sitting on top of one another. Before we got fifty miles down the highway, several cons had already pissed on themselves. Somebody forgot the piss cans. But, with so much wind blowing through the cage, they would be dry by the time we got to the Walls. Somehow, I got on the wrong side when boarding and couldn’t see off into the cars that went by. Nobody was about to switch for less than two decks.
It was almost noon when we got there and we quickly unloaded and were herded into the latrine area. Afterwards, we sat on those hard seats for almost an hour before show time. In the meanwhile the Goree girls kept us entertained by showing us their “stuff” when the guards weren’t looking. We looked and wished. The whole show lasted about three hours and then we were heading back to the hell.
I sat in wind-chilled silence thinking about the day’s events, recollecting some of the hundreds of pretty girls I’d seen. My head was so damn cold I couldn’t help but remember we were the only cons there with bald heads. It started raining before we got halfway back. It was after eight that evening when we stepped off the truck. Cap’n Foots was at the back door, “Y’all go on in the messhall, take off them clothes an tie them shoes together.”
Indian givers. We stripped, and filed back to our tanks where our clothes were ready and waiting. I finally thawed out and went looking for Chinaman. “Look man, a million years frum now, don’t never ask me to go to anutha one a them muthafuckas! It ain’ worth it.” He just stood grinning at me like Fu Manchu.
Chapter 16
A herd of wild elephants foraging in the African jungle wouldn’t make as much noise as we did stripping sorghum cane. The task was threefold and Boss Nobles left it to me to get us organized. I chose the fastest workers to do the cutting and the slower ones to handle the loading. Everybody in the squad helped strip the razor-sharp leaves off the cane going down the rows. Coming back, we split up into sections. The cutters hewed the stalks while the loaders came behind gathering and loading it onto the trailers. When the loaders fell behind, we cutters helped load to keep them caught up.
When we stripped in the afternoon it wasn’t too bad, but not so in the early morning when the cane was still wet with dew and the leaves let go reluctantly. My hands were sem
i-soft from the moisture and almost every time I reached up to the top of a stalk to strip it down, I cut them. My bloody palms looked like they had been sliced repeatedly with a razor blade. I ripped off a piece of my pants leg and wrapped it around my palms. When we knocked off for lunch and got out on the turnrow headed for the building, I noticed I wasn’t the only one.
Once we reached the building and got to the tank I went straight to the face basin. After washing my hands, I saw what a real mess they were. Cadlack, the lead row in Number 3 hoe, came over, “Say Race, is dat cane messin up y’all’s hans lak it is ours?” Instead of answering, I just showed my sliced palms to him. “Whut we gon do man?”
“I don’t know whut we gon do. I jes know whut I’m gon do.”
“Well, whut ya gon do man?”
“I ain’ decided yet.”
“When ya do, lemme know. Fuck dis shit!” and he walked away.
The turnout bell rang. Back to the cane field. After lunch we quickly finished up where we had left off and caught another set. My hands were bleeding again from more fresh cuts. About midway I stopped, “Boss Nobles, my hands is in bad shape,” turning my palms up for him to see, “an some uv the others is too.”
After looking at my hands he shook his head. “I see ‘em, Racehoss, but I flat don’t know whut to tell you, ‘cept y’all take yore time an try to be careful strippin them leaves.”
The last part was okay, but there was no way we could take our time. Not us. I worked on a little farther, thought about the pisser, and dropped my cane knife. Fuck it! I quit! And sat down on my row.
The rest of the squad quit. It was a shame this had to happen under Boss Nobles, but we wouldn’t have done it under the Band. This wasn’t the first time our hands had been bloody. We always stripped cane bare handed, but under Boss Band nothing was supposed to hurt. If it did, we kept it to ourselves.
Soon, squad after squad sat down in the middle of their rows and placed their hands over their heads like we had done. For once, we banded together. The call went out, “Them nigguhs dun bucked!”
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