Racehoss

by Albert Race Sample

  A few intermittent showers started on the Thursday before the big game. Big Devil immediately called in the building for Mr. Meabs and told him to get some tarpaulins from the tractor shop and cover the diamond.

  Friday afternoon the showers were gone. Big Devil began his usual roaming about the farm checking things out. He knew every inch of it just like Road Runner and I did, only he drove it. While surveying his 16,000-plus acres, he went down Hog Pen Alley and passed by the baseball field. He saw standing water on the diamond and no tarps.

  When he returned to the office he slammed the screen door behind him, went directly into his office and called for Mr. Meabs. He crashed down the receiver and sat at his desk cursing. “Gotdam diamond’s jes full uv puddles. That sonuvabitch didn’ do whut I tole him!”

  Mr. Meabs stepped into the office with a big grin on his face. With both barrels, the warden let him have it. “You spose to be soooo Gotdam smart! Got a big ol’ piece a paper hangin on yore wall, but you ain’ got sense nuff ta cover up a fuckin diamond!”

  Mr. Meabs’ small, pudgy frame shrank six inches as he stood in the warden’s doorway. “You know whut, Meabs? I don’t know nuthin you KIN do cawse you ain’ dun a damn thang since you been heah. Them nigguhs been a-runnin ‘at Gotdam schoolhouse. All you been doin is settin up there on the hard part uv yore rotten ass takin all the credit.”

  Mr. Meabs mumbled something, but was interrupted. “Shet yore mouth when I’m talkin to you!! Next time you disobey my orders, I’m gon see that sumthin gits dun to yore ass!”

  I stopped typing and looked into his office. I saw the back of Mr. Meabs’ pants legs shaking from his trembling knees. During a pause in the blistering ass chewing, Mr. Meabs said in a soft whimper, “I’m sorry, shir. I git busy an flat forgit.”

  “Busy my ass! You ain’ never been busy a day in yore life.” Sarcastically, “You spent alla yore time a-goin to school gittin educated. Well, it sho as hell didn’ hep you none. I been a puttin up wit way more uv yore shit than I oughta. Take yore Gotdam ass outta heah, an see if you got sense nuff to go roun to that messhall an git a mop an bucket, an git yore ass down to that ball field an dry up ‘at diamond. I bet not see a speck uv water on it when you git thru!”

  Meabs left the office running. Soon after he left, I left. I made it my business to be standing by the backgate when he came out with his mop and pail hung over his shoulder. He was whistling like a jolly little elf on his way to cookieland with the mop balanced over his shoulder and the pail hanging from the mop head.

  Being reduced to a molecule of shit just a few minutes earlier didn’t seem to have fazed him one bit. Regardless, I hadn’t felt this good about anybody getting eaten up and spit out since Emma sliced Arthur Johnson across the cheeks of his ass with that butcher knife. The score had been evened, and I didn’t have to lift a finger.

  The Juneteenth celebration got underway as planned. A few trusties were still out working, but they would take off early for the ballgame. After the fried chicken lunch, we went out on the yard and ate our piss chunk. Each con was allowed half a watermelon, so we were full as ticks waiting for the main event.

  EVERYBODY WAS THERE, the building was left empty. Whenever the Yellow Jackets played at home the warden demanded 100 percent attendance with the only exception being the picket bosses, and even they watched with binoculars. The whole ball field was encircled by bosses on horseback.

  Plenty of candy wrappers were rattling while our team was on the field warming up. Rat’s on the mound for us today! “RAT! RAT! RAT!” the chanting began.

  He was the Satchel Paige of the prison system and could throw a ball hard as a mule can kick. When Rat was pitching, the warden wouldn’t let anybody do the catching but Pee Wee, who stood a fraction over four feet. The warden liked the way Pee Wee “talked it up” with Rat between pitches. Extra padding was sewn into Pee Wee’s mitt, making it fat as a pumpkin, but with Rat on the hill it would be all busted out by the end of the game.

  The warden sat on the hood of his car going over the game plan with Mr. Meabs. “Heah dey cum,” somebody in the bleachers shouted as the big-caged truck bringing the Hardhitters turned onto Hog Pen Alley. The free world umpires arrived and held their conference with Big Devil, Beartracks, Mr. Meabs, and the Ramsey team manager. After setting the ground rules, the game got underway.

  The first three batters up for the Hardhitters, Rat mowed down. He threw nine pitches that sounded like nine cannon shots hitting the mitt, knocking Pee Wee back from home plate nine times. But Pee Wee jumped right up, dusted off the seat of his britches and quickly resumed his catcher’s stance, never missing a beat.

  Pounding his mitt, “Thas th’ way, baby kid! Turn over in yo hide! C’mon, baby kid! Turn me over—make me see upside down!” BOOM!! “Thas th’ way!! Why don’tcha knock me down sum time?!” BOOM!! “Thas th’ one, baby kid! Thas whut I’m talkin bout! Put it rat heah! Lemme have that same one again!” BOOM!! Down and back he’d go.

  The bleachers bunch whooped and hollered, “Rodent’s right today! Dey can’t see it cuz dat nigguh’s throwin dirt up dere!”

  “Man, dat nigguh’s kickin high!” referring to Rat’s knuckles dragging the ground each time he cocked his leg and reared back.

  The Hardhitters’ best pitcher, Coach Whip, who was a side armer, was no less effective with our first three batters. The pitcher’s duel went on inning after inning with only one scratch hit given up by Coach Whip. Through six innings, Rat struck out eighteen batters and was well on his way to breaking his own strike-out record.

  Top of the seventh their best hitter, Swahili, was up. Rat reared back and fired. The pitch was ripped into right center field. The outfielder bobbled the ball and it was a stand-up double. We let out an excited sigh in the grandstand.

  The next hitter sacrifice bunted and the runner was safe at third. One out. Big Devil called “time out” and summoned Rat over to the car. “If you lose ‘is game nigguh, I’m gon do sumthin to yore Gotdam ass!” After the pep talk Rat bore down and the next batter went down swinging. Two away.

  Rat went into his full windup. A bleacher fan yelled, “Look out!! Heah he cums!!” The third base runner was stealing home and Rat uncorked one to cut him down. The force knocked Pee Wee at least six feet back. The runner slid across home and was standing up dusting off his britches by the time Pee Wee got back to the plate. Rat struck out the next hitter for number twenty.

  In our half of the inning, we got two hits but couldn’t push anything across. On through the top of the ninth Rat had a total of twenty-four strike outs, but we were still behind one to nothing. Rat was also the best hitter on the team and would be the second batter coming up in the last of the ninth.

  Rock Island, our first baseman, was the first man up. He hit a long fly ball the center fielder ran down and caught. Rat was at the plate. First pitch, he smacked a double down the left field line. Big Devil jumped off the hood of his car shouting. Popeye, our next to the last hope, swung at and missed the first two pitches from Coach Whip. Then he hit a little blooper to the shortstop. Two down.

  Big Devil headed for Mr. Meabs, who was standing next to our players’ bench. If a rabbit was in the hat, Big Devil was going to pull it out. Since the game had been so crucial throughout, both teams had exhausted their player rosters.

  The Yellow Jackets had used every player, except West Texas. The warden held a strategy conference with Mr. Meabs. Pee Wee was scheduled to hit with the tying run still at second. West Texas couldn’t help but overhear Mr. Meabs tell the warden that he had used all of his pinch hitters. West Texas butted in, “Warden, Suh, lemme take a bat.”

  “Git away frum me, nigguh!”

  Mr. Meabs took his shot below the belt with a chance to lisp his displeasure at having West Texas on the team. “Wes Texis, you can’t hit no ball. You don’t eben pra’tice when you out here.”

  Undaunted, West Texas pleaded, “Warden, Suh, I picks a lotsa cotton fo you. I ain’ got to play in no game yet
.”

  True, the warden knew he was no ball player to begin with, and let him sit on the bench and watch two practice days a week. At forty-five, West Texas was still one of the best cotton pickers on the farm. The warden kept him on the team because of that and to give him the two days to rest up. He had a way of looking out for the older convicts who were good cotton pickers.

  Big Devil conceded, “I don’t give a damn if he ain’ been practicin. Let ‘em hit. Least he got sense nuff to do whut I tell him.” Touché! “He can’t do no worse’n them other rotten bastards who couldn’t hit a Gotdam bull in the ass wit a base fiddle. Gitcha a bat an go on up air an lay into one!”

  Since he’d never played a game, he’d never been issued spiked shoes. So he dug in at the plate with his heelless field brogans. He fouled off the first two pitches. Coach Whip got wild and threw three balls in a row. Things were so tense you could hear a boll weevil piss on cotton.

  The three-two pitch was on its way, and it was just what the warden ordered. SM … ACK!! He hit it deep. The outfielders watched as the ball flew over their heads. Because there was no fence, there were no automatic home runs. The center fielder was running full speed trying to catch up with the ball and the bosses were galloping their horses behind him.

  It rolled damn near to the turkey pens, a good 600 feet from home plate. The center fielder finally caught up with it as West Texas was falling down rounding second. He’d already fallen going to first. The bleachers rocked with excitement as he stumbled to get up. Rat scored.

  Three players lined up in the outfield for the relay back in. When West Texas rounded third, he was almost out of breath and looked like he was running in slow motion. The warden rushed out between third base and home urging him on, “Cum on, nigguh! C’mon, git ready to slide!!” The throw was finally coming in. West Texas fell again and started crawling. Big Devil ran up to him screaming, “Git up! Git up! Git up, nigguh! Git uuuuup!!”

  West Texas stumbled on toward home, collapsing head first at the plate and putting his hand on the bag. “SAFE!” by a hair.

  We won two to one, ice cream for all. That is, except for the player who bobbled the ball and allowed their runner to reach second. He spent the rest of his Juneteenth standing on a soda water box.

  Big Devil was on the bright side of sixty. He enjoyed sitting around talking with his old law enforcement and hunting cronies who stopped by the unit on a regular basis for a free cup of coffee and meal. Among them were highway patrolmen, county sheriffs, deputies, a funeral director, and even some grand jury members whenever they convened. Reared back in his executive chair, he told them tale after tale about things that had happened during his illustrious career, which he had begun as a field boss on Ramsey. Then he was mess steward on Clemens, where he got promoted to warden. After the white cons were transferred away, he was sent to Retrieve to take over.

  “They shipped off all ‘em ol’ white thangs befo I got heah, an when I took over ‘is camp, they handpicked the worst nigguhs frum the other units an shipped ‘em to me. So, I started out wit nuthin to begin wit,” he told his full-bellied audience.

  He pointed to the gruesome 11 X 25 framed photograph hanging on the wall behind his desk. It showed a headless convict sitting at the end of one of our messhall tables. In the photo Redwine sat perfectly erect with his hands still resting on the table, with a lighted Lucky Strike clamped tightly between his fingers. Except for his missing head, everything in the picture was normal.

  Big Devil joked, “Sum flunky wuz scared Ol’ Redwine wuz gon kill ‘em, an chopped his Gotdam head off!”

  It happened in 1948. I had heard the story from some of the old-timers who witnessed it. They say Redwine and a kitchen flunky had gotten into a fistfight over some chock, and that Redwine, known for being a badass, whupped the flunky’s ass and threatened to kill him the next time they met.

  The decapitation took place at lunch after everybody had passed through the chow line and was all seated and eating. As usual, the flunkies were bringing the steam pans up and down the aisles, offering second helpings. When the beat-up flunky walked down the row of tables where Redwine was seated, he stopped behind him long enough to pull the cane knife he’d managed to smuggle into the messhall from underneath his apron. He made one swooshing swing and BLOP! Redwine’s head hit the table like a cabbage and lay about two feet from his body. Even though the blood was gushing from the stump where his head had once been, the photo showed Tarzan seated across from the beheaded con still eating. They say he didn’t even stop when the head plopped on the table.

  With a pompous air Big Devil chuckled and said, “It took a while, but I dun tamed most uv these nigguhs.” Then he hollered to me in the outer office, “Ain’t that right, Ol’ Racehoss?”

  “Yessuh, Warden.”

  “Take Ol’ Racehoss. When he first cum heah, useta git punished all the time. Turned out ta be my top hand. Would y’all b’leeve ‘at nigguh won the cotton pickin championship ‘ginst the top pickers frum Ramsey and Clemens? But he’s dun got sum education now so I put him out heah ta be my bookkeeper. Ol’ Racehoss,” he called out.

  “Yessuh.”

  “Holler up air an tell ‘at picket boss ta call in the buildin an have ‘em send Ol’ Steeple Head out heah.”

  “Yessuh.”

  After bragging about the gore and cotton picking, it was time to send for the unit jester to further prove how “tame” we all were. That dubious distinction fell upon Ol’ Steeple Head, who was black as a crow, slightly built, and his records said he was forty-nine and a six-time loser. His most striking feature was the shape of his pyramidal head with little room at the top for any brains to be stashed away. He practically grew up in the Gatesville State School for Boys. With six convictions for non-violent crimes, he’d spent most of his adult life in prison.

  Regular as clockwork every Saturday night, he dressed up in his “hustlin rig” and took a seat on the bench at the front of Number 5 tank. With jockey drawers, a rolled-up T shirt around his chest, a pair of raggedy hose smuggled in by the trash wagon trusty and some homemade garters, he was ready. Sometimes his work brogans were still covered with dried mud and horseshit from his job at the horse lot. And to top it off, he smeared Noxzema on his face and tied a red bandanna around his bald, cone-shaped head.

  Since he wasn’t “classified” as one of Retrieve’s star punks, he didn’t rate room service in Doc Nolan’s dentist office. So Steeple head took care of business in the shower area obscured from the inside picket boss by a partial brick wall. He charged three packs of Bugler, two for him and one for the building tender Ol’ Bugs for the use of the motel and posting a lookout.

  All the cons who tricked with him couldn’t afford the star punks and must not have given a damn if he cheesed it to the warden, because he sure as hell would tell it if the warden asked. His clientele knew what they were getting into beforehand. Despite the fact that he looked like a creature from outer space, he managed more than enough customers.

  When business was slow, the cons on the tank teased him just for the fun of it. “Say priddy mama, you know my credit’s good an I’ll straighten you draw day,” (pay day, the day cons receive their script books).

  Steeple Head was an old pro and knew when they meant business. Jokingly, he’d shoot back, “Naw baby,” very submissively, “yo credit may be good, but I can’t light it up an smoke it.” Imitating a woman, “’Sides, it’s th’ wrong time uv th’ month.”

  As soon as I finished second handing Big Devil’s command, the outer picket boss was third handing it to the inside picket boss. In no time at all, from the office window I saw Steeple Head running at full speed down the sidewalk for the front gate. The lever was thrown; the gate flew open.

  I heard the crashing noise of his fumbling and falling into the office screen door. It sounded like he was breaking in. This was all part of his grand entrance, to show that the door would be broken down if that’s what it took to get to the warden after being summ
oned. He finally jerked it open and entered. After slipping and sliding on the freshly waxed floor past my desk, he almost skidded right by the warden’s door. He grabbed hold of the doorframe; if not, he would have slid on by and hit the wall.

  Panting, “Yassuh, heah I is Warden Suh.”

  “Whut took you so Gotdam long!?” That was a cold shot because Steeple Head was scuffling his ass off to get there. “I sunt in there half a hour ago fer yore rotten ass, an you jes now draggin in heah!”

  “I cum fass as dey lemme out, Warden Suh.”

  “Jes shet yore Gotdam lyin mouth! You been a lyin ta me ever since I knowed you, nigguh. Whut makes you thank I b’leeve ANY Gotdam thang you say?!”

  Steeple Head started weeping. As Big Devil paced around him, his menacing six-foot-two frame towered over Steeple Head, adding to his nervousness. “Y’all know whut I dun fer this nigguh? I hep’d git ‘em out uv th’ penitentiary. Didn’ I, nigguh?”

  “Yassuh.”

  “I got a friend uv mine over in Brazoria to take him in an give ‘em a job. The man paid ‘em a salary an let ‘em live right there on the place. He even let this nigguh drive his ol’ pickup truck. All the while he wuz bein good ta ‘em, you know whut he wuz a-doin? The rotten bastard wuz a-sneakin back out heah gittin in my hog barn. The sonuvabitch wuz brangin that ol’ cheap wine out heah an him an the night hog nigguh would pile up in my barn, git lickered up, an screw all night. The lot boss wuz pullin down sum sacks uv feed an found this sorry nigguh a-layin up there sleep, buck nekked. I had him ‘rested; they ‘voked his prole an sunt his rotten ass right back heah to me,” failing to mention Steeple Head’s arrest cleared the livestock report of “unaccountables” from day one.