Racehoss

by Albert Race Sample

  When the rest of Retrieve’s personnel learned of the new orders, there was near pandemonium. Most of the officers and bosses were justifiably worried about their futures. Education was never one of Big Devil’s main criteria for employee selection. He used to boast he had only completed the eighth grade himself. A large portion of his staff didn’t graduate from high school. Many didn’t get out of grade school. I knew Buzzard and Eatem Up were scared to death since they couldn’t even write their own names.

  With only a month left until the warden’s transfer, things at Retrieve were sadder than the horses that pulled President McKinley’s casket down Pennsylvania Avenue … until Black Betty came. She left a lone passenger. On my way back to the office to deliver his record to the warden, I leafed through it and thought there must have been a mistake. After the warden looked at it, he phoned into the building, “Send Ol’ Pug out heah.”

  I was looking through the file cabinet, and Pug walked by without my seeing him. He went directly into the warden’s office. “Ol’ Pug, is that you, nigguh?”

  “Yessuh, it’s me, Warden!”

  “Ol’ Racehoss, cum in heah an look at this nigguh.”

  I definitely wanted to see him because I sure as hell didn’t recognize him at the backgate. I went in and after seeing Pug up close, it was still hard to believe it was him. Instead of looking like a pug-nosed Pekingese, now he looked like Pinocchio with a long pointed nose, big ears, and thinned lips.

  “Gotdam nigguh! If you wudn’ black as th’ ace uv spades, you’d look jes lak a white man.”

  Pug grinned from big ear to big ear.

  “Do you lak ‘is new face better’n you did that other’n?”

  “Yessuh, Warden. I laks it jes fine.”

  “Lemme ask you sumthin. Where’d they git all ‘at meat frum to make you that nose an them ears?”

  “Mostly off my behind, Warden.”

  Seldom did the warden ever laugh out loud, but he laughed so hard he was in tears. Pug and I got tickled and started laughing with him. “You mean to tell me, out uv all th’ places on you, they had to take sum uv yore ass an put it on yore face an ears? You know whut that means, don’tcha nigguh?”

  “Nawsuh.”

  “Well, it means that you’ll be walkin round a-smellin yore ol’ goat-smellin ass fer th’ rest uv yore life!” Big Devil was still laughing when he said, “Go on roun to th’ shop an tell ‘at boss I said give you a tractor an send you on out to th’ field. Be sho an tell ‘em who you is an if he don’t b’leeve it, tell ‘em I said call me.”

  That night on the tank Pug stood before the mirror until count time, primping. Proud Walker and a few others went to the back purposely to tease him. Proud Walker asked, “Pug, lemme axe you sump’n, man. Did you pick dis face or did dey do it? I lak’d you th’ other way when you look lak a bulldawg. Now you look mo lak a anteater wit dat long snout dey made you.”

  At last Proud Walker said something with which I agreed. Pug was ugly as sin before his surgery, but now with his “new” Anglo features he looked like an uglier somebody else.

  The same week Pug came back Trigger Bill met his doom. He had finally convinced the warden to take him off as building tender and let him work in the shop squad. Big Devil still relied on Doc Cateye to run the hospital, so when he wanted to know, he called him. Cateye diagnosed Trigger Bill’s death was due to poisoning. Explaining, “Sumhow, he musta got into suma that cotton ‘secticide cuz Warden, I smelt it on his breath. Smelt lak he’d been drankin sump’n else too, lak that ol’ chock.”

  The trial of the decade was underway. The warden interrogated the entire tractor and shop bunch. “Warden, dat nigguh had a bad habit uv slippin roun drankin other folks’ stuff, if y’know whut I mean. Das prob’ly whut happen to ‘em. Sumbody musta fixed up a special batch fo ‘em,” one explained.

  Wash stated, “Warden, Suh, I ain’ sayin I’m one uv ‘em, but I know dat dem other nigguhs chips in an buys sugar an stuff outta th’ messhall an makes ‘em up a batch uv chock. An dey say Ol’ Trigger Bill didn’ never chip in. He snuk aroun watchin where dem other nigguhs hid dey jugs at an he drunk it all up, an be blowin his breff in dem other nigguhs’ faces.”

  Trying to trip up the testifier, “How do you know he wuz sneakin round drankin up y’all’s homebrew?”

  “Nawsuh, Warden, I wudn’ watchin ‘em. I be doin my wek lak I spose to, I jes heard dem other nigguhs talkin dat wuz watchin ‘em. See whut I’m sayin, Suh?”

  “An I don’t spose you kin remember none uv their names either?”

  “Nawsuh, I sho don’t, Warden. You knows me, I try to tend to my own bizness when I’m out dere.”

  Even though in a roundabout way every one of them confessed that Trigger Bill had been poisoned and gave their renditions of why, nobody knew who. Big Devil didn’t buy that his chock stealing was the sole motive he was murdered, and told them so. And he was right. The cons knew that once Trigger Bill left the protection of the building, it would just be a matter of time. While he was a building tender, he made plenty of enemies over the years. Because the tractor and shop squads were his own handpicked workers and so vital to farm operations, the warden wasn’t about to put them all in the pisser and leave them there until somebody confessed. So he ruled there was inconclusive evidence and the case was closed, “Death by suicide.”

  Big Devil didn’t get to laugh long about Pug’s makeover. Security got its first slap in the face when Sergeant Buzzard and Rattler let one get away. This was the first successful escape from the burnin hell in many years. Retrieve’s once notorious reputation for not “lettin ‘em git outta the bottoms” had been stained.

  The warden’s impending transfer caused an exodus of old-timer personnel, especially those he failed to get transferred to Eastham with him. The new director stuck to his guns that each warden would be allowed to take only his convict cook. Boss Jack was finally getting to have the last laugh.

  Cap’n Smooth had in thirty-seven years and suddenly decided to hang up his spurs. Lieutenant Sundown, who had come to Retrieve with Big Devil over twenty years ago, resigned and went to work with the local sheriff’s department. The laundry supervisor requested and was granted a transfer to another unit. The shop, lot, and garden supervisors all retired. Buzzard, after thirty years, was quitting the dog trail and put in for his retirement to begin the day that Big Devil departed.

  Even the two old water wagon mules, Coal Oil and Fannie, got out a month before the warden was to leave. They rode off into the sunset for the soap factory and hopefully were NOT pulling the water wagon in mule’s heaven.

  The wheel of fortune had stopped spinning and teetered toward reverse. The burnin hell (Big Devil’s domain) was going up in flames, and he could do nothing to stop it. While others were wailing and gnashing their teeth, Big Devil stayed out of the office and kept mostly to himself. He went fishing a lot in “his” pond, the one I had helped dig. His move to Eastham was a bitter pill he was forced to swallow. Starting over again at a multi-racial unit with over two thousand untamed cons was going to be a real challenge to his wardening philosophy. Since all he could take with him was his cook Lil Hal, He sure better not leave his handbook behind! I thought.

  Chapter 19

  1968

  On the morn scheduled, the curtain fell on Big Devil’s long reign over hell.

  That evening the replacement warden from the “Ham” arrived. I recognized him from his photo in the prison administration’s annual directory. But, I had no idea the face in the book would be attached to a giant’s body, and I readily accepted the stories I’d heard about his prowess as a defensive lineman at Texas A&M University.

  He walked into the warden’s office and sat down behind the mahogany desk, “I am sitting in the right seat, ain’t I?”

  “Yes Sir,” I answered, but he sure didn’t look right sitting in it.

  “How long have you been working in the office?”

  “About four years, Warden.”

&
nbsp; “How much time you doin?”

  “Thirty years. I’ll pull my records if you want me to, Warden.”

  “That won’t be necessary. I’ll take a look at it later.”

  “Warden, do you need me to get anything out of your car?”

  “Naw, I got a lot of junk in there, but I’ll take it on down to the house. The van will be here later tonight with the rest of my things. I’ll git somebody to unload it tomorrow. That’s a pretty long drive down here. That’ll be all.”

  Within a few months after the new one’s arrival, he was baptized with a sit-down strike in the fields, an escape attempt, and a near riot in the messhall. Work slowed down in the fields for the first time in many moons. The squads no longer worked on Saturdays, and it didn’t look like we would finish our harvest first. The unit rapidly lost its manicured appearance as the weeds took over.

  We were shown a laissez-faire style of “wardening.” Each evening after he had supper, the warden routinely returned to the office to catch up with his paperwork. Afterwards, he headed for the building and went in one of the lower line tanks to play dominos with the cons. With the door locked behind him, he stood at the domino table and waited his turn.

  When he went in one of the eastside tanks, we could look down from the trusty tank and see him at the domino table. He seemed right at home and made as much noise as they did slamming the dominos and squabbling. At first the cons were leery of him, but after he passed around his ready rolls freely, they were glad to have him in the game.

  Boss Wise-em-up didn’t dare holler, “Y’all betta git down on it. Suma you ol’ wild-ass’d nigguhs gonna hafta talk ta that warden in the mornin.” We had gotten used to his evening tank visits and on Saturdays he spent practically the entire day inside the line tanks. Even though there was always a domino game going over at the guards’ quarters, he preferred playing with the cons.

  Sometimes while waiting his turn at the table and rocking on his heels, he’d lose his balance and reel backwards. The cons standing around would catch him before he fell. He’d thank them and they laughed and kidded him about it, going so far as to say, “Warden, I sho wish I felt good as you feels.” It was soon common knowledge that when he went in the tanks, he was smashed on his ass.

  In the office the assistant warden and Boss Jack were discussing him. Boss Jack commented, “His breath smells like a distillery. He goes in those tanks higher than a Georgia pine.”

  “Yeah, I know. How in the hell can I maintain building security while he keeps volunteering himself as a potential hostage.” A few days after their talk, the assistant warden made out a request for a transfer, which was granted. He was sent to the Darrington Unit and promoted to full warden.

  The Walls administration got wind of the warden’s tank escapades. A few weeks after the assistant warden went to Darrington, a big sedan from the Walls kicked up gravel wheeling into the parking space. The three officials (one I recognized from the cane patch) walked briskly past the warden’s office and on through the front gate.

  Once inside, they struck up a trot hurrying down the sidewalk and on into the building. It was Saturday. About ten minutes later, four were coming back. They had busted the warden red-handed in Number 3 tank playing dominos. Face flushed, he was high as a kite as he led the way into his office. They closed his door, and I got the message and left. After their sedan sped away, with his shoulders sagging he walked down the sidewalk headed to his house. The outside picket boss got a radio message about four hours later and hollered it down to me. “The movin van’ll be here Wednesday.”

  Monday in the truck mail a letter came from the Walls Education Department. I had been selected to attend heavy equipment school at A&M, and was to be transferred to the Walls on Thursday for processing. I had no idea how they came up with my name; I hadn’t applied for anything.

  Later that day it came in on the teletype that the warden from Central would be the next replacement and was scheduled to arrive on Thursday. We’d probably pass each other along the highway, I figured.

  Wednesday afternoon I helped the warden put his trophies and other personals from the office into his car. That night I packed my little shit and was ready to vacate hell too.

  After the heavy equipment school ended, I was assigned to a bulldozer sitting idle at the Darrington Unit. When the work was completed at Darrington, I was sent to work at Pre-Release, Ramsey, Ellis, Ferguson, and then on to Eastham.

  Whatever cost factors were involved for the training I received, they were certainly getting their money’s worth out of me. When my mail finally caught up with me, I wasn’t surprised that I had gotten another year’s parole set off. The Board read their Hog Law book on me and determined that being back five more years wasn’t “near bouts enuff,” as Cap’n Smooth would say.

  The truck-driver guard slowed the diesel transport to a stop in front of the Eastham Unit tractor shed. I unchained and quickly unloaded the machine. Finished, he took me to the backgate and had me put on the count, then checked me into the building.

  The building officer told me to sit down in the hall against the wall, and he walked away down the long hallway. About half an hour later, another officer walked over and ordered, “Come with me.”

  I walked slightly behind him for at least two city blocks down the main artery before we made a sharp left into a smaller hallway. When we reached the closed door with “Warden” written above it, he knocked lightly.

  “Yeah, cum on in.” I recognized his voice immediately.

  When we entered, the officer quickly removed his cap, placing it under his arm. “Is this him, Warden?” he asked.

  “Yeah, thas him. That’ll be all.” The officer politely closed the door on his way out. “Ol’ Racehoss, Gotdam nigguh, been a long time since I seen you,” in a tone that sounded like he was glad to see me.

  “Yessuh, sure has Warden. How you doin, Suh?”

  The spark in his once fiery eyes had dwindled to a flickering ember. The lines of time threaded his face and his hair was white as snow. He looked tired and old, well past his prime.

  “Aw, fair to middlin, I guess. Lotta difference in this farm an that other one though,” he added.

  “Yessuh, I imagine it would be.”

  “Almost four times as many heah an most uv ‘em young ones that ain’ learnt how to do time yet,” he commented. Taking a look at my record there on his desk, “Looks lak you been movin roun quite a bit.”

  “Yessuh, I sure have.”

  “You had a chance to go back down there yet?”

  Jokingly, “Warden, I doubt if I’ll be sent back to Retrieve. We did all the heavy equipment work with our hoes and shovels befo you left.”

  He smiled, “Set down,” motioning toward one of the office chairs and offering me all the courtesy he would a free world man, except the handshake. “Y’all run that other warden ‘way frum there in a hurry. Didn’ ya? Got ‘em busted to ‘sistant warden. Whut wuz th’ matta? Wuz he too hard on y’all?” he wisecracked.

  “No suh, I don’t think that was it.”

  “How cum they sunt you over heah?”

  “They said you needed some work done with the dozer, Warden.”

  “Yeah, well, I got a little drainage wek an sum clearin I want you ta do.”

  He leaned back and began naming off the Retrieveites who had gotten out, come back in, and were here with him. “Ol’ Proud Walker, Ol’ Bay City, Ol’ Steeple Head, and Ol’ Cryin Shame.” Then, bragging, “Them ol’ bastards got word to me soon as they asses landed in them Walls, wantin to cum where I wuz. So I tole ‘em to send ‘em on. Ol’ Forty’s over heah too. Have you heard whut happen to Ol’ Pug?”

  “No suh.”

  “Well, that new face didn’ hep him much. That ignant bastard didn’ last a hot minute afta he got out. He went to Houston an got to big-assin wit sum ol’ woman an she stabbed him in th’ heart wit a ice pick an kilt him. An you’ll never guess whut Ol’ Bay City dun. He’s gotta be one uv th’ c
raziest nigguhs I ever seed. As good a damn mechanic as he is, he got busted in a cafe. The owner caught him drunk, settin down in front uv th’ jukebox takin th screws out uv it to steal the nickels an dimes. The owner held a gun on him til the police got there. I can unnerstand it when suma these nigguhs that ain’ got no talents cum back, but there ain’ no excuse fer a nigguh lak Ol’ Bay City to keep runnin in an out uv heah.

  “An Ol’ Steeple Head shouldn’ a been sunt back at all fer whut he dun. That crazy sonuvabitch wuz runnin frum a nigguh who’d whupped his ass. ‘Thout even lookin back, Ol’ Steeple Head shot over his shoulder an hit that nigguh right betwix the eyes, kilt ‘em dead as a hammer.” Laughing, “That nigguh cried an begged th’ judge out uv a measly three years.

  “Ol’ Cryin Shame robbed a man’s place, then set down on the steps an waited fur the police to cum take ‘em to jail. I always knowed that nigguh couldn’ make it in the free world.” Adding, “He don’t havta worry bout it no more. They filed the bitch [habitual criminal] on ‘em an give ‘em life ‘is time.”

  After bringing me up to date on the old stomping ground cons, he put on his Stetson. “Cum on, I’ll show you roun the farm.”

  He drove up and down turnrow after turnrow, pointing out all the agricultural improvements he’d made. “When I first cum heah, trees an underbrush wuz growin all up to there,” pointing over to some freshly plowed land. “I dun added more’n two thousand new acres uv farmland to this place. Tell you sump’n else, I put these sonsabitches to wek too. It wuz sum bastards up heah who’d been layin up on they asses in that buildin so long, they’d dun flat furgot how to wek!”