“So les raise ‘em up higher, an then drop ‘em on down.”
“Drop ‘em on down.”
“They can’t tell the difference, when the sun goes down.”
“When the sun goes down.”
We must have sung Boss Leaks and his horse to sleep. While we were singing, his old horse had wandered behind another squad. Both had their heads hanging down. Boss Cochise detected Boss Leaks had fallen asleep and alerted the others not to awaken him. The horse and Boss Leaks came right out on the turnrow still following the wrong squad. We watched him go down the turnrow, dead asleep. That languid old horse had been walking on the turnrow for so many years he followed anything dressed in white. Only problem, he didn’t know one squad from another. We all looked alike to him.
Once all the squads were out on the turnrow and headed down it, the bosses felt they’d let the joke go on long enough. Cochise hollered, “Hey, Boss Leaks! Hey, Boss!”
Boss Leaks flinched and sat up erectly. Eyes blurry, he looked around and didn’t see the three or four cons he knew. “Yeah, whut is it, Boss Wilhite?”
“Boss Leaks, I hate ta ‘sturb you, but you been followin the wrong squad.” The other bosses cracked up.
Boss Leaks waited until they finished laughing, “Dey all nigguhs, ain’t dey?”
Besides Boss Leaks’ antics, the tractor squad was another main attraction. They put on a show for us when they plowed nearby. It was like watching a John Deere Indy 500. Proud Walker was the lead row man in the tractor squad and had the pole position. His middle busters hit the black gumbo first as he tail rowed space for them the way Bad Eye tail rowed our rows for us. When Proud Walker moved over to catch another set of rows, he always left the exact amount of space for the rest of the drivers to catch in and plow coming back down. They took off after him and plowed the rows straight as arrows with the front wheel of their tractors reared up like a motorcycle daredevil.
Thirty-Five plowed while steering with his feet and rolling a smoke. Crazy Folks filed on a “piece a sump’n” he hustled at the shop, making rings, tie clasps and other sellable “jewelry,” as he tilled the soil.
The “toast ridin” feat was the grand finale. They all lined up and leaped off their moving tractors, ran along beside them, undid their water jugs strapped to the hoods, took a drink, “salud,” crossed over in front, and remounted on the other side. It was no secret that those jugs were usually filled with “chock,” a homebrew made from potatoes, sugar, yeast, dried fruit, and water. At any given time any of them could have been busted for PWI (plowing while intoxicated). It was no secret either, that the tractor squad was the “warden’s niggers” and could get away with it.
Their bosses didn’t hassle them since they were all good workers, or the warden wouldn’t have assigned them to the squad. They were the first ones called out in the morning and the last ones to come in at night. Seven days a week, rain or shine, the tractor squad went out.
To keep the farm looking clean and the roads smooth, on Sundays the warden would have Pug and Brady drop the cultivators on Brady’s hot rod tractor and hook on the cable-drawn two-by-twelve planks to drag sweep the main turnrow, which was the road leading into the unit. When we were up in the auditorium, we could see them through the windows as they performed their no-holding-onto-nothing-allowed “plank skiing” stunt. We bet on each ride.
They took turns riding the planks while the other zigzagged the tractor across the road, trying to throw the plank rider off. Going full speed, the driver locked one of the wheels and turned sharply to create a wide, sweeping “pop the whip” effect. When this didn’t get it, the driver was the loser and they’d switch places. According to our score, the match was 3-1 in Pug’s favor.
Something was really going on; I thought maybe the Feds had taken over. Never had so many big shots from the Walls Administration visited our unit back to back. The week before it had been a group from the Education Department down to teach us a word association memory technique, and then it was the prison system’s clinical psychologist, Dr. Gates.
“Any man can change for the better, but he’s gotta want to. He’s got to have that itchin, achin, burnin desire for self-betterment.” When I first saw Dr. Gates I thought he might have been the governor, nattily attired in his business suit and boots. He spoke eloquently while at the same time using layman’s terms we could understand.
He told us, “I’m going to start a pilot program of group counseling sessions where we can talk out our problems through discussions and interacting with one another. The program’ll begin next Thursday afternoon and will be held each Thursday thereafter for sixteen weeks. Those selected to attend will only work a half day on Thursdays. Selection of the twelve participants will be left to the warden’s discretion.”
“He sho didn’t hafta say dat,” somebody mumbled.
The only logical reasons I could come up with as to why Big Devil selected the twelve of us was either he’d gone crazy, or didn’t give a damn if it worked or not and was just appeasing the administration. We were all field hands, except Hollywood and Rev.
After Big Devil finished laying down ‘the law’ about classroom behavior, he asked, “Y’all got any questions?”
Nobody had any. That is, except Flea Brain. “Yassuh, Warden. How cum y’all don’t put Poke Chops in heah wit us?”
Big Devil didn’t dignify his question with an answer, instead he shot him a scornful look and dismissed us. Thursday rolled around. “Funny-school day,” the cons had labeled it. The count was clear and Boss Humpy let us out.
When we entered the auditorium, Hollywood and Rev were already seated, chatting with Dr. Gates. They got a head start because their trusty tank door was kept unlocked and they could wander about at will. We sat waiting to be included.
“Good afternoon,” Dr. Gates greeted. He got less than 100 percent response and said it again. This time we all said it back. “How can we interact if we don’t speak to one another? I already met these two fellas. Why don’t we get acquainted, I’m Dr. Gates. Now let’s start with this fella here, what’s your name?”
Flea Brain didn’t give Fistfucker a chance to speak and blurted out, “How cum y’all ain’ got Poke Chops in dis class?”
“I didn’t know y’all were allowed to eat up here.” Joking, “Next time I’ll try to remember to bring something.”
The class erupted, and so did Dr. Gates, which I’m sure made Boss Humpy wonder what in the hell was going on. Finally we laughed ourselves down and Proud Walker explained between laughs, “Dr. Gates, he ain’ talkin bout poke chops you eat.”
“Well, if we’re not talking about the kind you eat, somebody wanna tell me what we ARE talking about here?”
Proud Walker, in his finest hour, was quick to decipher the Pork Chops intrigue. “Dr. Gates, he talkin bout anutha nigguh NAMED Poke Chops.”
“Nowww I got it. Thanks for helping me out.” The class had gotten back to semi-calm, and Dr. Gates directed his attention to Flea Brain, “What’s your name, fella?”
“Flea Brain.”
“Why do they call you that? Do you know?”
“Yassuh, it’s cuz my brains ain’ no bigger’n a flea.”
“How do you know that?”
With foolish pride, “Das whut th’ Warden say an th Warden don’t lie.”
“And you believe that your brain ‘ain’t no bigger’n a flea’ just because the warden said it?”
You better watch out Doc, you’re treading on thin ice. If you don’t, Wise-em-up’s nightly heralds of “you gonna hafta talk ta that warden in the mornin” will ring true for you.
“Well, now that I know Pork Chops is a who, why do you want him in the class?”
Flea Brain was not the bashful type when the subject was Poke Chops. “Jes cuz I luvs him an he need to be where I is an I need to be where he is. See, me an Poke Chops be togedda a long time.”
“In other words, you feel that your friend Pork Chops should be in the class because
you’re in it.”
“Dr. Gate, he be mo’n a ‘frien,’ Poke Chops be my woman,” and sheepishly added, “an sumtimes I’s his’n. We swich awoun.”
Silence.
“Oh. I see.”
Overwhelmed by his frankness, Dr. Gates jumped at the opportunity to do a full flea brain analysis. “Do you feel it’s wrong to have sex with a man?”
“Dat’s all dat’s in heah. I gits punished when I gits caught jackin off. Most uv us can’t git to dem cows, mules, an hosses lak dem lot nigguhs. Whut we spose ta do?”
Flea Brain had stymied the good doctor. “If you don’t want to be in the class because Pork Chops isn’t in it, then the best thing for us to do is get you out of it. You go on downstairs and have a seat underneath the picket. I’ll talk to the warden on my way out.”
After Flea Brain left we spent the rest of the afternoon listening to the good Doc describe his escapades as a “RAF pilot in WW 2.” Even with Flea Brain gone, he had his work cut out for him. There was the silent bunch: Earthworm, Tarzan, Crazy Folks, Cowfucker, and me. Fistfucker, Nelly Nuthin, Proud Walker, and Bow Wow were the vocal dunces who tied up the class with their illogical questions and arguments.
Rev and Hollywood were the ad-libbing duo. They held up the class expounding on Dr. Gates’ statements. Their suckassism was the most boring part of the class, but Proud Walker would come to the rescue with his cockeyed questions that caught the good doctor off guard.
Dr. Gates was going hot and heavy, “A man is judged by his behavior. A man is no better or worse than his behavior makes him. You are no more or no less than what you’ve become up to this very moment. We’re the sum total of our behavior.”
He should have finished before he stopped to ask if we were “with him.” Proud Walker apparently wasn’t. “Dr. Gates, sump’n bout dis I don’t unnastan.”
“What is it you don’t understand?”
“Well, whut is behavior in th’ furst place an how does I know I got one?”
“Everybody has a behavior. Sometimes it’s good and sometimes it’s bad, just like anything else.”
“Well, if it’s bad an it’s jes lak anythang else, how cum ya can’t git it tuk out lak yo ‘pendix when dey gits bad? Is it sum kinda disease er sump’n?”
“No, it’s not a disease.”
“Well, if it ain’ no disease, how cum it takes a doctor ta fix it?”
As the weeks wore on, the good doctor repeatedly talked about pride, fair play, humbleness and respect for others whenever Proud Walker hushed long enough to let him finish a thought. He made some good points and was doing his level best to convince us we could “change.” But he didn’t “unnastan” this was no place for fainthearted gentlemen. Besides, where were our keepers? Why weren’t some of them in the class? Surely we weren’t the only ones who could benefit from his teachings on compassion and dignity.
In the not too distant future, the warden decided Tarzan would be “betta off” in the psycho ward at the Walls and transferred him there. Maybe Dr. Gates had something to do with it. Finally after so many years at Retrieve, he was sent away. If he let out one of his jungle screams at the Walls, they wouldn’t know what in the hell to think, especially if he caught a mouse or something. He’d wind up in a straitjacket for sure. We were “betta off” without him, but he was safer with us—we already knew he was crazy. They’ have to find out the hard way.
At the end of the sixteen weeks we held our graduation exercise in the auditorium and received our certificates of completion. My first … for anything.
The next morning, Friday, it was business as usual. After Big Tom sounded, Cap’n Smooth hollered up the hall, “When you Number 1 and 2 nigguhs cum out, pull over to one side an wait. Awright, lemme have ‘em, Boss!”
“Number 1!”
Soon as I cleared the steps, I veered the squad over by the laundry. Number 2 did the same. It took about fifteen minutes to get the count clear. While waiting for our work assignment I thought, I sho hope they don’t send us to clean up around them Gotdam houses.
Then Big Devil came out onto the yard. “Boss Nobles, Boss Wilhite [Cochise], y’all go git sum picks an shovels. Take y’all’s squads roun in front uv my office an I’ll meet y’all.”
“Yessir. Okay, Racehoss, let’s go git us some tools.”
We got them and met him on the shell road in front of his office. “Boss Nobles, Boss Wilhite, I want y’all to go right out there,” pointing to the open field of Johnson grass, “on the other side uv ‘at parkin rail an commence diggin.”
We stood poised and ready to dig up the world. “Tell y’all whut, I best walk over there wit y’all an show you zackly whut I want.” Walking across the road, “Brang y’all’s squads on an follow me.” He walked to the center of the field and pointed down, “This is where I want y’all to start.”
“Whut’re we diggin, Warden?” Cochise asked.
“A fishin pond.”
“How big’s it gonna be?” Cochise asked.
“Well, itta be plenny big enuff when y’all git dun wit it.”
Looking at the area I thought, He ain’ bullshittin. And with two squads digging it with picks and shovels, I’d discharge the rest of my sentence on it. Big Devil “walked it off.” According to his calculations, the pond would end up being 100’ by 100’. “And we’re goin down a fer piece, bout six to eight feet.”
“Warden, you ain’ plannin on goin fishin in it no time soon, is you?” Cochise asked.
Big Devil smiled mischievously, “Jes soons y’all git it dug.”
The two squads kept their motors on low idle, hoping Cochise would hush and let Big Devil go on about his business. Just his presence made everybody nervous as whores in church.
“Warden, you gonna stock it?” Cochise asked.
“Gotdam, Wilhite! It wouldn’ be no damn fishin pond if it weren’t no fuckin fish in it.”
Boss Nobles, waiting for an opening, asked, “Warden, you got any more orders before we git started?”
“Yeah, take yore Number 1 nigguhs an spread ‘em out in a circle heah in the middle. You nigguhs spread out in a circle roun me. Spread out wide nuff apart so y’all got room to wek.”
Then he had Number 2 encircle us. “Now thas the way I want y’all to start. You Number 1 nigguhs start diggin in the center heah, an pitch ‘at dirt back to these Number 2 nigguhs. They’ll throw it back outta the way, we’ll build up the levee as we go. Awright, y’all git at it.”
The area was near the officers’ housing, namely Cap’n Smooth’s house. Most of the cons and bosses hated working close to the residences, and especially that close to the warden’s office. Whenever we walked past the warden’s house, we had to pull off our flop-down hats whether anybody was home or not, which was the main reason I started wearing a bandanna. Failure to do so was the pisser (for being disrespectful). The same thing went for his car.
Plus, the officers’ wives always found something to do outside when we showed up, just so we could see them. They came out onto their porches or front yards wearing nothing but housecoats. If we got caught “looking,” no telling what might happen. They knew what they were doing when they showed off in our presence. They also knew that many of us hadn’t been with a woman for years. It was dangerous as hell to work around them.
After the second week of digging, we had the “pond” all to ourselves. We didn’t do it on purpose, but we jobbed the shit out of Number 2 hoe. We’d been digging out so much dirt and pitching it back, they couldn’t shovel it back fast enough and we had a hole that looked like a double-ring donut. This pissed Cochise off and he started cursing them for not keeping up. Cap’n Smooth’s wife overheard his “foul language” and ran him in to the warden. Big Devil came out to the pond and sent them back to the fields. Fuck!
But Big Devil compensated for the loss of manpower. We worked in the hole as our “regular” job five days a week and all the screw-ups in the building, as well as in the field, carried on the project nights and
weekends as punishment.
After about ten weeks the hole was taking on the shape of a huge pond. The more we dug, the more I despised the sight of a shovel and a pick.
Tuesday evening when we came in, Boss Humpy hollered down in the tank, “Ol’ Racehoss, lay-in in th’ mornin to ketch ‘at chain!”
“Yahoooo!!” I couldn’t help it. It had been so long since I talked to the parole man I’d just about given up. After almost eight years, I made it.
Chapter 17
… and violated parole for aggravated assault with a deadly weapon.
Deja—fuckin—vu! Stepping back into hell again. I felt like kicking my own ass as I walked through the backgate. With a pair of nuts hotter than a comet’s tail, I had been out just long enough to get my belly full of pussy and my nose cut off. With no credit for the time I was out I picked right up where I left off, going yonder way on the rest of that funky thirty-year sentence, which amounted to about ten more years. With commutation time, eighteen calendar years discharge a thirty-year sentence.
Soon as I got my things put away in the same old Number 3 tank, the picket boss sent me to the front office. “Welllllll, Ol’ Racehoss! Couldn’ stay out, couldja? Jes can’t make it in that free world, kin you? Nigguh, you wudn’ gone long nuff fer ‘em to give away yore bunk, wuz you?”
Not so, I got another bunk and locker, but I didn’t interrupt just to dispute that. I’d rather have been shot down and shit on at sunrise than to have to face him, let alone listen to his shit.
Then he noticed the scar that hadn’t completely healed, “Whut happen to yore face? Whut’d you do, git to fuckin wit sumbody’s gal?”
“Nawsuh, Warden. I wuz in a car wreck an went thru the windshield. It cut my nose off.”
“Thas too bad Ol’ Racehoss, but it still looks lak yore nose.”
“Yessuh, it is. I had it wrapped in my handkerchief. When I got to the hospital, they wuz able to sew it back on.”
He thought for a minute, “Go upstairs to the E and R Department [Education and Recreation Department] in the mornin, an tell Meabs I said to put you on Ol’ Sonny Wells’ job. I’m sendin him to the Walls to cook fer the director. Thank you kin handle ‘at?”
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