Part 6 (2/2)

And the Fine Graders of the Bull Gang were the Terrible Trio; Koko, Dragline and Luke. They were the ones with the skill and the strength and above all with the status that ent.i.tled them to this position of authority. And along with their responsibilities went the privilege of Eyeballing, a license discreetly exercised and never granted officially but a tangible right nevertheless.

The rest of us did the heavy work, breaking the ground for the aristocrats in the rear. But we too were able to take advantage of the wonders and the beauties of Eyeball Boulevard. Years of practice had taught us the art and a certified eyeballer can be staring at his feet and shoveling all day in a perfect frenzy. But all the while he is staring into the burnished pan of his shovel which catches the reflection of a chrome plated hub cap whirling by on the road. And in that infinite glimpse he catches the spinning vision of a distant window behind his back, in the frame of which there is the flash of a polished doork.n.o.b reflecting around the edge of a doorway to capture on its rounded surface the distorted image of a woman removing her housecoat and putting on a bra.s.siere.

For a whole week we worked on Eyeball Boulevard. There were sentimental lumps in our chests, in our throats and in our pants as our eyes watered with frustration. Yet we showed not a sign, stoic, calm, concentrating on our labors, pretending to be unaware of the fancy homes, the enticing billboards, Cadillacs, kids, gardens, blonds and brunettes, restaurants, bars, sport clothes-everything. But secretly and discreetly our eyeb.a.l.l.s bulged and strained. Every pa.s.sing car was inspected for raised skirts, shorts, halters and low-cut dresses.

It was a wild, impossible week. Miracles occurred every day. From the orange juice canning plant at Plymouth all the way to Apopka, three miles up the road, we worked our way through the suburbs of Paradise. By a stroke of luck four Newc.o.c.ks had arrived just in time to take the Heat off the rest of us who in the meantime weren't missing a thing.

Because we know all about those beauties way out there that you don't even suspect. The traffic lights on a rain-swept Free World street that are like emeralds and rubies. The ordinary citizen strolling into a bank for some change who walks with the ponderous righteousness of a Caesar. A fat, homely woman walking a dog on a leash who becomes in the wink of a pa.s.sing eye a voluptuous Diana out on the hunt. Oh, the beer signs! The grocery stores! Shoes s.h.i.+ning there in the window!

Early on Tuesday afternoon the entire squad was herded across the road to do some work on the other side. For a moment we stood there in a cl.u.s.ter, waiting for the signal to cross while the guards s.h.i.+fted their positions. The traffic was thick and had slowed to a crawl as we stood there peeking through the windows of the Buicks, Chewies and Fords, looking at bulging bosoms, thighs, bellies swelling against the cloth of bright colored summer dresses.

Then a convertible crawled by in the congestion and stopped behind a truck. We didn't move. Our faces revealed no expression. But we could have reached out and touched the voluptuous blond who sat there cringing in the stare of our eyes, tugging at the hem of her skirt to pull it down below her knees.

The car began to move again, a succession of semitrailers, pickups and busses taking its place. There was a gap in the traffic, we were given the signal, crossed the road and resumed our work. But for a full fifteen minutes our heads reeled with the memory of the vision, our nostrils clogged with the lingering odor of perfume, of whiskey, the smell of her s.e.x and skin that had wafted out to us in a cloying, strangulating aroma. There wasn't a word in the Bull Gang as we went on with our ch.o.r.es. But we were busily inhaling, a.n.a.lyzing those various scents that contrasted so strongly with the hot, dirty, sweaty smells of our own world-lipstick, rouge, face powder, fresh clean skin, eau de cologne and Canadian Club.

Dragline said it; for all of us.

d.a.m.n. d.a.m.n. Ah been chain gangin' so long ah'm gittin' so's ah kin sniff jes like a bloodhound.

The following day Dragline appeared out on the road wearing a cracked, broken pair of sungla.s.ses that he had picked up somewhere in a ditch. One arm was gone and he had attached that side to his ear with a piece of string. Luke grinned at him and drawled, Well, lookee here. Ole Clark Gable's joined up with us. In disguise. But d.a.m.n if it don't look just like my old friend, Fat Boy.

Dragline scowled back at him.

Man, you got no 'magination a-tall. These here are mah Eyeballin' gla.s.ses. Like Boss G.o.dfrey's got. Ah'm a-gonna play peekaboo at all that young p.u.s.s.y struttin' up and down the road. With these here things on none of them f.u.c.kin' shotgun guards can tell which a-way ah'm a-lookin'. Get it, you ignoramus?

Then came that historic event branded on the collective memory of the camp, the incident which would be whispered about, rhymed and sung, subtracted, divided and multiplied into the pure, ultimate form of legend.

About three o'clock in the afternoon, a sixteen-year-old girl got off a school bus and came walking along the edge of the highway with her books in her arms, walking right through the middle of the Bull Gang as sa.s.sy as could be. She strutted by with swinging hips, with quivering b.r.e.a.s.t.s and eyes that pretended to look elsewhere, a saucy expression only half concealed in the deliberate pout of her lips.

Several impossibilities happened with staggering rapidity. The girl turned up the driveway, crossed the front lawn and entered the house. But in five minutes she came out again, wearing a scanty, two-piece bathing suit. With complete unconcern for the seventeen convicts and four Free Men not a hundred feet away who watched her with dizzy rapture, she spread a blanket on the lawn and languidly stretched out for a sun bath.

Dragline's mouth hung wide open, his shovel forgotten in his hands. Koko kept up a pretense of working, hissing a warning to Drag.

Watch it man. Boss G.o.dfrey'll be on your a.s.s.

f.u.c.k 'em all. Je-esus Christ! Would yuh look at that!

Careful Drag. You're gonna get chucked in the Gator as sure as h.e.l.l, Eyeballin' that way.

f.u.c.k 'em, ah say. Let 'em put me in the Box if they want. Ah done found mah woman. Jes as soon as ah gits outta this here joint ah'm comin' back here and marry up wif her. You see if ah don't.

I thought you were gonna marry Rita Hayworth.

Ah can always commit bigamy, cain't ah? Like that guy Blackie? That's one thing ah wouldn't mind doin' Time for.

Then Boss G.o.dfrey saw what it was that had paralyzed the squad. He walked down to the ditch bottom and leaned against a telephone pole standing next to the driveway, nervously swinging his Stick and glaring at us. But the shovels moved reluctantly. Even the guards were staring.

Then Boss G.o.dfrey himself turned his head to look. As though they were all wired together, seventeen heads automatically turned with his in obedience to a single, universal thought. He looked back again. We looked at our shovels again. At the end of the line, Koko, Luke and Dragline stood motionless, brazenly violating the strictest rules of The Hard Road.

Then the girl reached behind her back and untied her bra.s.siere strap. Lying on her stomach and propped up on her forearms, she pretended to read a movie magazine. Cursing violently, Dragline whipped away his Eyeballing gla.s.ses, threw them on the ground and jumped on them with wrath.

d.a.m.n them things! They're blockin' the scenery.

Luke muttered incoherently, his hands nervous on his shovel handle, Koko gazing with fixed enchantment, his shovel making ridiculous, meaningless motions in the sand.

Drag! Look! She's lookin' down in between her t.i.ts!

Ah see. Ah see. Oh no-no! Now she's scratchin' her behind! Oh, Lawd! What are you doin' up there? You tryin' to kill me? Look! She's Now she's scratchin' her behind! Oh, Lawd! What are you doin' up there? You tryin' to kill me? Look! She's grinnin' grinnin' at me! She's grinnin' right at at me! She's grinnin' right at me! me!

What are you talkin' about, Fat Boy? How do you know she's not grinnin' right at me? me?

Are you nuts? She knows a sure 'nough he-man when she sees one. Now look. She's sittin' up and holdin' the bra.s.siere with one hand!

I got eyes. I can see.

Ah got eyes too. But they're gonna drop out any minute now. Christ! One of the cups slipped down. Ah cain't stand it no more! Ah'm creamin' in mah jeans!

What a tease! What a no-good, G.o.d d.a.m.n tease!

Don't call mah fiancee a tease. You wanna git knocked on your silly lookin' a.s.s? Look. There she goes inside. Goodbye darlin'. Goodbye Lucille.

Lucille? How do you know her name's Lucille?

A gal like that? With a a.s.s and a pair of knockers like she's got? She jest gotta be named Lucille. That's all.

Then it was over. The girl tired of her game, stood up and went back inside the house, her b.u.t.tocks wriggling with one last, tantalizing twist. And the vision was gone.

We could hardly wait for Smoking Period so we could consult with each other, all of us wondering if it had been real or if we had all been bear-caught. We also wondered how many of us would have to spend a night or two in the Box.

That school girl had no idea of the extent of the power she wielded over us with the tyranny of her body. For weeks her detailed image remained in our memory. That very night the mere thought of her swinging hips sent all of us rolling over in our bunks to lay on our sides, surrept.i.tiously playing with ourselves with sly, innocent movements.

With great care we tried to keep the double bunks from swaying and informing the man above or below us of our l.u.s.t, writhing in shame at being compelled to make love to our own hard and calloused fists. Fretfully we grappled with the elusiveness of our fantasies as all around us other bunks were shuddering with an apparently sourceless energy. Our souls coiled and uncoiled within us, wafting upwards in ethereal wisps to tangle with the unclean odors of shoes and sweat and the smell of s.h.i.+t coming from the johns.

Here and there could be heard that drawn-out sound. Not the growl and the whinnying triumph of masculine o.r.g.a.s.m nor the quiet moan of satiated pa.s.sions nor even a sigh of peace, but merely the lightest breathing, held in, checked, smothering a heart that was beating, spasmodic and m.u.f.fled.

Then a strangled cry: Gettin' up here, Carr!

Yeah. Aw right. Get up.

The bulbs were still burning as incandescent suns...o...b..ting through the pit of snores. Men turned over on creaking beds, the sheets tangled in leg chains. Softly Carr padded back and forth in his crepe soled shoes, his heavy face grim and brooding, chewing on another cigar, reliving every detail of the actions, the emotions and hopes that had led him to that heist job in Jacksonville which had doomed him to fifteen years of sleeplessness.

Outside in the darkness I could hear the hounds. And Big Blue's baritone reached me as he howled at the full moon. I sat up in bed.

Gittyap!

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