Racehoss

by Albert Race Sample

  Boasting, “I put a stop to ‘at shit in a hurry. Ol’ Racehoss, when I cum up heah, they had bout three hunnert nigguhs an Meskins wekin in the fields. None uv them ol’ white thangs wuz wekin atall. Now, I got over forty squads.”

  “Warden, do they work together in the same squads?”

  “Well, not zackly. They wek in the same cut sumtimes, but I ain’ got roun to mixin ‘em up yet. Course when one uv them ol’ white thangs fucks up in his squad, I take him out an put his ass in a squad wit them nigguhs fer a couple uv weeks. Weks ever time. Don’t take much uv that to git his heart right an make him put his ass in high gear.”

  When he reached the place where he wanted me to start working the dozer, he stopped the car and told me what he wanted done to prevent water from standing in the area after it rained. He said I’d be working under the farm manager, and would be coming out in the mornings with the tractor squad.

  As we were driving away, he continued, “Tell you sump’n else too, most uv these bosses wuz doin jes lak they damn well pleased, which wuz nuthin. It took sum doin, but we got it straight that I weren’t gon put up wit they trifflin shit. They got the message afta I run off a batch uv ‘em.”

  When he ended the tour, I was let out at the backgate, “Boss, put this nigguh on yore trusty count an let ‘em go on in the buildin.”

  The trusty tank was empty except for the building tender, Ol’ Forty. The warden had given him the same job he’d had in the hell. As soon as I put my belongings away, we sat down and had a long chat. He told me he had filed a writ because he had served his forty-year sentence, explaining, “Hell, Race, it don’t take but twenny-fo calendars to do forty. I dun nine years befo I made prole an I been back over seventeen. Sumbody fucked up, man. I been heah two years too damn long! Dumb as I is, I kin figger dat out.”

  He reaffirmed what the warden told me earlier. “Big Devil put dese muthafuckas to wek, an I mean everbody. Ain’ no mo uv dat layin-roun shit.”

  When the call came for the tractor squad the following morning, I caught out with them and headed for the tractor/shop area. I was checking the fuel and oil in the dozer when an officer dressed in snappy western wear, who looked to be in his mid-forties, walked up, “I’m the farm manager. You gon be runnin ‘is thang?”

  “Yessuh. The warden told me what y’all want done.”

  His expression flashed anger, “Ain’t you the nigguh I seen ridin round wit the warden yestiddy?”

  “Yessuh, he had me in the car with him.”

  “Oh, I git it,” he said disdainfully, “yore anutha one uv the warden’s nigguhs.”

  “No suh, I’m just a nigguh sent here to do some heavy equipment work for y’all.”

  “Whut’s yore name?”

  “They call me Racehoss.”

  “Well, Mister Racehoss, when you git thru dilly-dallyin round wit ‘at machine, do you thank the warden would mind if I told you to go on an git started?”

  I didn’t respond to his sarcasm, got on the machine, fired it up and walked it down the turnrow. After twenty days, I had the big drainage ditch cut and was ready to start clearing stumps.

  Then, when the equipment service truck from the Walls arrived on its regular run, they brought along my trainee helper, a young white con. In the training program I had been instructed how to train new operators and knew this would be part of my duties. While two of my former A&M classmates who were assigned to the service truck were checking the machine, the service truck boss went over the trainee details with me.

  “They want you to let him ride on the machine with you while you’re operatin it so you can tell an show ‘em what you’re doin. Then let ‘em run it with you ridin. When he gits to where he can handle it pretty good, let ‘em do it by himself as much as possible so he can git the feel of it. With you watchin, of course.

  “I think he knows the front end frum the back. He told me when we were comin out here that he had run a front-end loader once. You don’t need filters or nuthin, do you?”

  “No sir,” I said.

  After he and his two helpers left, my new trainee told me he was twenty-four, that this was his first time in the pen, and that he was from some little town in northeast Texas, serving three years for burglary. None of this meant a hill of beans to me. What mattered was that I had somebody to help me so I could take a break from the dozer sometimes and give my back a rest.

  The on-the-job training was paying off. Gene was getting better and better as the days went by and could run the machine alone, but wasn’t quite good enough yet to work it in close quarters. I was leaning against a tree no more than fifteen feet away watching him spread some backfill when the farm manager drove up.

  He stopped and shouted to me, “Ol’ Racehoss, git over heah! Gitcha Gotdam ass on the back uv this pickup! I’m takin you to that buildin.”

  Climbing onto the back, I asked, “What for?”

  “Jes shut yore damn mouth an git on!”

  He drove off, spinning the wheels. On the way he radioed ahead that he was bringing in one of the heavy equipment operators. Big Devil must have intercepted the message because he drove up at the same time the pickup stopped at the backgate. The farm manager got out of his truck and walked the few feet around to the driver’s side and leaned on the door.

  “Whut’s th’ matta?”

  “Warden, I wuz brangin this nigguh in to have ‘em put in the pisser.”

  “Fer whut?”

  “Fer one thang, when I drove up out there in the field a while ago, Ol’ Racehoss wuz standin off up under a shade tree makin ‘at white boy do all the work.”

  The warden beckoned for me. I jumped off the truck bed and walked over to his window. “You hear whut th’ farm manager said?”

  “Yessuh.”

  “Is he tellin th’ truth?”

  “Yessuh,” I answered, totally surprised that he’d ask. Never had I heard Big Devil question an officer’s word. “Warden, my helper had only been on the machine bout five minutes when the farm manager showed up. I was doin what I was told to do by the service truck boss who brought ‘em. He told me to let ‘em run the machine as much as possible. I’d dug the stumps up and he was spreadin some backfill when he drove up.”

  Leaning on the steering wheel and never looking up, “Boss Dickie, you kin go on back to doin whutever you wuz a-doin, cawse I know you musta been mighty busy.” The farm manager’s face reddened more when Big Devil said, “Git in th’ car, Ol’ Racehoss,” and took me back to the machine.

  The warden kept finding little projects, keeping the machine busy, overextending his allotted time limit. The farm manager started driving out almost daily, taking Gene off in the front seat of his pickup. Sometimes they’d be gone for over an hour. When he’d get back, he said the farm manager had him doing “sumthin.” And I left it at that.

  At the hearing, the service truck boss testified that he did indeed find a new oil and air filter buried. The farm manager and my helper took him to the “exact spot.” My reason for burying the filters according to Gene was, “I didn’t feel like messin with ‘em.”

  The warden questioned me. “Didja do that, Ol’ Racehoss?”

  I looked him straight in the eyes, “No sir.” I turned and looked across the office into the face of my helper. “Warden, why don’t you ask him how they got there? He’s the one that’s been ridin aroun in the pickup with the farm manager, and they the ones who found ‘em.”

  Big Devil smelled a rat. He mulled over the testimony a few seconds, then said, “Since yore the one,” pointing to the service truck boss, “that brung this ol’ thang over heah, you take ‘em back witcha you when you leave.” He yelled out of his office to his clerk to start processing transfer papers.

  The service truck boss ventured to ask, “What do you want me to do with him when I git him back to the Walls? Warden, sir, I need to have some reason for bringin ‘em back.”

  “Do th’ same thang wit him ya did befo you brung him over heah.”

&n
bsp; The boss went a step further, “But Warden, no disrespect sir, what’s the reason?”

  “Oh, I see. You havta have a reason to give ‘em, huh? Well, tell ‘em th’ reason is I don’t want th’ rotten-assed bastard on my farm, an if they have any problem wit that, tell ‘em to call me.”

  After being caught in the middle of a power struggle, the day to leave Eastham couldn’t come quick enough. Orders finally came from the Walls to transfer me and the dozer to Coffield, the new unit under construction. As we turned onto the iron-ore-covered road, the compound of galvanized buildings loomed ahead. The truck driver followed the road around the buildings and stopped at the shop. Waiting at the loading dock was a truck from Wisconsin that had brought down a monstrous Number 9 Caterpillar to exchange for my smaller one.

  The normal check-in procedure at all the other units I’d been on began at the backgate. This time the driver drove to the office. No one was in the outer office when we entered. He called out, “Is anybody in here?”

  From inside the warden’s office, “Whutcha got?”

  The driver handed him my records, then left. It was Silly Willy, the former Clemens warden. He was rotated in the first round too. He glanced through my papers briefly, then looked over his horn-rimmed glasses, “Ol’ Racehoss, kin ya still pick ‘at cotton?”

  “No sir, not like I useta. That was a long time ago, Warden.”

  “They tell me yore a pretty good ‘quipment operator. Well, you sho cum to the right place. Plenny uv work heah to keep ya busy. You kin plan on stayin heah awhile.” He asked what I thought of my new dozer, said there was enough work here for a regular heavy equipment squad, and assigned me to it. After our chat, he phoned inside and had an officer sent to his office.

  I followed him through the long, barn-like galvanized building with chicken-wire-covered windows, surmising security wasn’t the long suit for this unit. With so much construction work, most of the five hundred cons were of trusty caliber, if not already trusties. The large majority were skilled construction workers, giving birth to another prison.

  Each hanger-type building was divided into two tanks. A tin wall with an open doorway separated them. Only a barber was in the tank when I arrived. This was my first unit without building tenders. He walked with me down the rows, pointing out the vacant bunks. He said the white cons lived on the other side of the wall. Throughout our conversation, he talked about how different it was here compared to the Ferguson Unit from whence he came.

  I read the tank’s bulletin board and saw that college classes would begin soon. I had been traveling around so much I was never at one unit long enough to take some courses. Silly Willy seemed certain I would be here awhile, so I decided to enroll.

  He was right. There was plenty of work to do on the 23,000-acre unit clearing timber, plowing root stumps, building roads and bridges, getting the land ready for farming. Although I was putting in a lot of hours and worked seven days a week, this was the best unit I’d been on thus far. The food was as good as eating at a free world cafeteria, the guards didn’t hassle us, and most of them didn’t even wear guns. The warden worked out a schedule allowing me to come in at four o’clock on the afternoons I had classes. I continued the writings I started a few years earlier and had filled up ten composition tablets.

  The much-traveled letter caught up with me, and was lying on my bunk when I came in from work. Besides the Christmas card the Salvation Army sent every year, this was the first mail I’d ever received. I opened it cautiously, the way they did those eyes and teeth boxes.

  “Dear Bubba, I hope you doing fine. It took a long time for me to find where you was. It’s Mama. She just hanging on. She got gangreen in one of her legs from the fleabitis and she got kidney failure to. They got her hooked to a machine. I talked to a lawyer about getting you out to come see her. The doctor say he would personaly call the Board to request that you come. I hope and pray they let you. I want to see you so bad. Been a long time, hasn’t it. I love you, Bubba. Your sis, Pat.”

  I was called out that evening. Letters containing news of illness, death, or other urgencies are viewed as motivations for escape attempts. Silly Willy told me to lay-in the building tomorrow, and he phoned inside to inform the building major.

  Back on the tank, I got the letter from under my pillow and reread it. It had been so long since I’d seen Emma, I was unable to picture her clearly. My mind slowly drifted back over the years.

  I was called out to the laundry the next morning and issued some free world khakis, shirt, and shoes. I’d been granted a five-day emergency reprieve. The deputy sheriff from Gregg County was waiting for me in the warden’s office. When he pulled the shackles out of his tote bag, Silly Willy said, “You don’t need them chains. Ol’ Racehoss is a state-approved trusty. He ain’t goin nowhere.”

  “Just followin orders, Warden,” and continued putting me in irons. After being fettered for transport, he led me to his car. The trip from the Coffield Unit near Palestine to Longview took about an hour and a half.

  In the Good Shepherd Hospital parking lot, he removed the leg and waist chains, but left the wrist cuffs. I got slightly nauseated by the strong hospital odors when we walked through the sliding glass doors. A brief stop at the admissions desk; the deputy got directions to her room. We were on the right floor and walked briskly down the wheel chair and gurney-lined hallway. Heads turned, and I was so ashamed I had to come in this condition.

  Pat looked up the hall, saw us, and came running. After the kisses and hugs, she asked the deputy, “Do you have to keep the handcuffs on ‘em?”

  “Ma’am, these are my orders. If you want to talk to the sheriff bout it, that’s alright with me.”

  Pat told me that Emma had been in a coma for three days. Walking toward the room Pat said, “Befo we go in, I’m goin over here an phone the sheriff.”

  While she was on the phone, I waited in the hall and exchanged greetings with her boyfriend Carl and Emma’s three sisters Pat had summoned from Dallas. I hadn’t seen Bama and Sally since I was a kid or Aunt El since that time I was hiding out under her bed.

  Pat’s conversation with the sheriff’s department necessitated the deputy going to the phone. Before I entered Emma’s room, he removed the cuffs and left the hospital.

  I was startled by how old and frail she looked, more like ninety than sixty-six. I reached over the railing and touched her. “It’s me.” Her eyes opened slowly. Barely able to move her fingers, she motioned for me to come nearer. I held her hand and leaned my face close to hers.

  Struggling to speak, her lips trembled. In low, short whispers, “Mama knowed you wuz comin. I wuzn’ bout to go nowhere til you got here. Move back a little so Mama kin look atcha.”

  Still holding her hand, I straightened my body. Opening her eyes wider, she looked me over through the flowing tears, “Is me an you still buddies?”

  The life light in her eyes waned. Fighting back my own tears, “The best kind, Mama.”

  A faint smile crossed her lips. With her eyes fixed on mine, she drifted off into death. Thank God! we got the chance to make our peace. My turning point had been five years ago in solitary. If I hadn’t changed, there’s no way I could have responded quickly enough. The feelings were there; I loved her. I only regretted she beat me asking.

  I was on a bench warrant in Pat’s custody until the funeral was over. She bought a navy-blue suit and the accessories for me, and put some money in my pocket. It surprised me that the funeral was held in a church and not at the funeral home.

  The pastor began the service by saying, “A member she may not have been, but I can say one thang for Emma Sample, she give mo to this church in dollars an cents over the last few years than fifty percent of the membership. So do she have a right to be in this church for her funeral? I just wanted to clear the air on that point.”

  He said he had visited with her twice a week over a long period of time and had gotten to know her. “I can tell the bereaved I know in my heart Emma Samp
le is in Heaven. If there was ever anybody I been close to as they neared death that I felt been saved, it was her. In the last few months befo she passed, she got close to her God and was prepared to die. She was not afraid. As she put it, ‘I’m a big girl.’”

  The small church was filled. I had no idea this many cared enough to attend. Even Mr. Milton, the liquor store man, closed up and came. The faces of the congregation were somber. Emma had told Pat that she didn’t want “no whoopin an hollerin,” just organ playing. She even picked the music the organist played throughout the service. I could almost hear her singing along.

  As I stood at the casket for the last viewing, I pulled out TWO one-dollar bills, folded them neatly and slid them beneath her hand. I knew she wouldn’t want to run into Blue and not have any money to go “head to head.”

  Pat offered to be my parole plan, but I felt living with her would be unacceptable to the Board because she had been busted a couple of times for gaming operations at her house. Besides, I didn’t want to put any heat on her by having a parole officer coming in and out. Instead, I submitted a plan to go to a halfway house in Houston.

  It was December and the snowflakes were soft peddling their way to the ground. The heavy equipment boss came to the tank and called for me. Since it was Sunday I was on towing stand-by. When we got in the pickup, the boss took me to where I had parked the machine the evening before. Once I got to the bogged-down log truck, it only took a few minutes to hook on the cable and pull it out. I towed it far enough up the road so the driver could make it the rest of the way to the sawmill on his own.

  The equipment boss said he had to drive to the other side of the unit and close some cattle gates, reminding me, “We’re tryin to git everthang closed up. Ain’ gon be many uv y’all wekin next week cawse most uv th’ bosses’ll be off fer Christmas. Why don’tcha go over in the woods an make yoreself a far. I’ll be back adder while an gitcha.”